Lovehammer: Drakensis
by Lovehammer Inc
Summary: Drabbles straight from the mind of drakensis, as the above title make pretty plain, a scattering of ideas that fit in more than one continuity.
1. Black Legion

{oOo}

The echoing hall had once been lined with fluted columns and bedecked with hundreds of banners heralding the triumphs of Horus Lupercal, Primarch and Warmaster. While it could have been ascribed to egotism on the part of the arch-traitor, the fact was that the chamber had been furnished entirely at the behest of his sister, as a museum to exhibit his accomplishments to the Terran masses.

Now the columns (fortunately more ornamental than structural) had mostly been smashed, the banners torn down and the tens of thousands of artifacts ravaged.

When news of the Heresy had been confirmed, thousands of those who had once walked through the galleries had returned and visited the petty vengeance that they could upon the representation of Horus. And then the avaricious had descended to strip away the gems and precious metals before the forces of law and order (curiously absent) stepped in to prevent further anarchy.

Probably most of those who profited from the vandalism were dead now.

The vast frame hung from the wall at one end of the hall had once held a vast oil portraiture of Horus and Serenity, the Primarch standing in full armour behind the Anima's chair. Half of the oil painting was still slightly in evidence, though much burned, but the half portraying the Emperor's Daughter had been torn away.

Horus briefly wondered where it was.

There were a thousand feet treading the scored and savaged marble of the museum once more, debris from the mob's leavings and from more than a year without repair to the gaping holes that had once been stained glass windows under their boots. The hall could have played host to a crowd of ten thousand men and women and often had, but with more than five hundred armoured space marines it felt crowded enough.

The armour was not the pale green Mark IV or Mark V suits that Horus was accustomed to seeing around him. A few of the one-time Sons of Horus had reverted to the ivory and the former name of his legion, but none of them stood amongst that crowd. They were the handful who had held true when all about them had not and they had no place here in a broken hall with broken men.

Broken in faith.

Broken in soul.

Broken, in many cases, in body.

But injured, heartbroken or simply foresworn of allegiance of first Loyalist and then of the Traitors, survivors of the Sons of Horus, of the Emperor's Children, of the Word Bearers and even in some rare cases the Alpha Legion had gathered in this hall and donned battleplate from the relatively well-stocked armoury now contained within the few weatherproof rooms in the structure.

Mark II and Mark III armour without exception, the suits were piecemeal but functional, a handful of technically skilled marines having supplemented individual capability. But they were uniform in one other respect.

Each was black, without marking of rank or status save for an engraved X or C in the brow of certain amongst them. Leaders of ten or a hundred, Sergeants or Captains as the other Legions would have it.

Even Horus wore the same unadorned plate, albeit armour always intended for his frame, notably larger than that a space marine. This, like all the suits of power armour and the weapons that accompanied them, had been provided to him by Rogal Dorn.

"You are not forgiven," the Emperor's Praetorian had told him flatly when he accompanied the shipment. "I have no brother by your name."

Filthy from days wandering the ruined galleries, eyes red from tears such as he had never thought to shed, knuckles actually raw from beating at the walls until one wing had collapsed outright upon him, Horus had merely stared at the wargear in confusion.

Dorn's jaw had worked for a moment before he spoke again. "The Emperor still speaks, sometimes. Scribes take it all down."

Well of course they would.

"'Horus Lupercal shall perish leading his black legion in crusade'," the Primarch of the Imperial Fists had recited with relish. "Guilleman and the others may believe that death is too good for you, but I have no such illusions. Death and whatever waits for you there is a fitting punishment for treason. And something must be done for those of your followers who claim to be repentant."

And so they stood there. Not even a single Great Company in size, many of them still bearing wounds of battles fought in his name and that of...

Horus shook his head and rose to his feet. It was time.

But before he could say a word there was the sound of armoured feet and marines turned (the older models of their armour not allowing their helmets to turn at all) to see the new arrivals filing through the doors.

Unlike those already arrived, these marines wore dark green and where not obscured with hasty daubs of paint it was clear that they had once worn the winged sword of a legion.

None of Horus' men were armed with more than bolt pistols or knives but all those arriving carried full wargear, a vastly superior panoply. Though outnumbered five to one, they would pose a formidable threat if they came in violence.

But no.

To Horus it was all too plain, even through their armour. These men were lost, looking not for enemies but for a road to follow. And the man in the lead was...

Stalking quickly through the crowd, he brought the new arrival's advance to a halt. There was no mistaking Horus after all.

No more than there was mistaking the sword carried by their leader.

His hands went first to the butts of the pistols at his hips, not to the blade. It was not his sword to draw. That he even carried it spoke poorly of the Dark Angels' circumstances.

There was a rustle amongst the crowd and four space marines moved to flank Horus, each wearing a C upon their helm. Reluctantly, he stepped back as the Dark Angel removed his helm, revealing a weary face.

"We are the Mournival," the four spoke as one.

"I am Cypher."

Horus' own helm was bare of any marking.

He who had once led would now follow.

Until his sister was saved, his father's promise could not be allowed to come to fruition.

{oOo}

AN: In a universe where Horus still fell, but was saved by Serenity, I guess you could fit it into the continuity of "The Scattering of Serenity", if you squint.


	2. Question & Answer

{oOo}

There had been a deadly silence in the War Council's chamber, even the ever confident Fulgrim realizing that perhaps he had asked a question that should not have been asked. It was a moment that deserved to be immortalized in art somehow: Rogal Dorn's face set in calculation as he considered the matter placed before him, Horus turning from the congratulations he had been heaping upon Perturabo for the latter's siegecraft at Badcon to offer a silent plea to his brother for atypical diplomacy in his answer.

Could the defenses of the Imperial Palace withstand an assault by the Iron Warriors?

Dorn's Imperial Fists were renowned for their mastery of the siege. Any fortification of their design would be formidable. But Perturabo's Legion were possessed of an equally high reputation and their Primarch had just been declared by the Warmaster to be the greatest master of siege warfare in the Crusade.

Now one thoughtless - or not so thoughtless - question could splinter this moment of triumph shared between four of the most distinguished of the Emperor's Primarchs.

Could the defenses of the Imperial Palace withstand an assault by the Iron Warriors?

If Rogal Dorn had ever been less than totally honest it was not known to Imperial history. "If well manned, I regard those defenses as proof against any assault."

There was no sense of challenge to his words. There never was. Some truths, in the eyes of the Praetorian, were unquestionable.

Serenity was the Emperor's heir.

Horus was the only possible choice as the Warmaster of the Imperium.

The Imperial Palace was as impregnable as his more than mortal hands could make it.

Perturabo's great fists clenched and then relaxed. "That might be sufficient to guard our sister," he said at last and tension ebbed from the room as Horus slapped his taciturn brother on the back and even Rogal Dorn unbent enough to offer a toast to the Iron Warriors guardianship of the Imperium's worlds.

{oOo}

AN: In which Fulgrim opens mouth and inserts foot, however Perturabo takes things more calmly, could potentially fit in most continuities.


	3. First Impressions

{oOo}

Angron stared at the little procession making their way up the mountain.

He'd expected an assault from the five great armies gathered around the mountain redoubt that he and his followers held out in. It was a given that he would die in that assault - fewer than a thousand of the former gladiators survived and while their fury would doubtless destroy far more than their own number, the armies of an entire world were mustered against them.

Symbolic graves lay behind the positons of Angron's City-Eaters although all knew that their bodies would never occupy them. Doubtless their bodies would be torn apart by the victors for display all across the world, any unfortunates who survived being tortured to death in the great arenas from which they had come.

But what ascended the steep paths was no army and the vast encampments so distant that only his on unmatched vision could make them out bustled not with preparations to attack but instead... to depart?

Perhaps three dozen men and women formed the line snaking their way towards him and none of them were warriors. Some carried weapons, but they were no more than ornaments. Except for the silver staff held by the girl who led them. She was not one of them, he conceded. Every other amongst them he knew by their faces or at least close resemblence to the oligarchs he had seen watching his bouts over the years. The rulers of the world, the absolute apex of power until he had begun his revolt.

But the girl was something else. Her name... his mind wrestled with the unfamiliar language, new to him, that had been spoken by the Emperor and his dog-soldiers. Selene? No. Serene? Almost.

"Serenity." Angron grated the word out and heads turned amongs the little band who stood near him.

"Shall we kill them?"

A red rage rushed through Angron, flooding out doubts. The girl, the Emperor's pampered daughter, had brought before him the fat pigs who'd gloated over his enslavement and who had sent millions to die under his blades while never risking themselves. He raised the swords already in his hands and prepared to descend to meet the girl. She would be the f-

She would di-

He would k-

Angron thought about the gentle silver light that he had seen around her. Not the proud splendour of his 'father', but something equally familiar. There was little gentleness he could recall in his life. Scarcely any at all, in fact.

Snarling viciously, he smashed the swords down on the stones before him, cleaving the rock into three parts. "Not yet." Then his lips curled in dark humour, the brutal jokes of a gladiator his only education in that mode of thought. "Perhaps she's earned a red twist for her triumph rope."

{oOo}

It is said that only once was the Anima to suffer any scar to her sacred flesh. And this too, she ever asserted, was a mark of love.

{oOo}

AN: Born from the thought "What if Serenity interfered in 'collecting' Angron?", on a similar vein to the thought if was her, and not the Emperor that also collected Konrad Curze. Again, could be in any continuity that pops up.


	4. Icons of the Imperium

{oOo}

Serenity smiled down at the little girl who had brought flowers to her. It was a charming custom of the planet for a child to welcome dignatries to the planet and after careful scanning by a small army of techpriests it had been agreed that flowers and child were safe.

"They're lovely," she assured the little girl who seemed just a little intimidated by the hulking Space Marines who were 'reinforcing' her bodyguard of Custodes. The exact Legion that provided the force varied on a complex rota system that she had never quite grasped, possibly because none of her brothers seemed willing to explain it. She would have suspected Horus if it wasn't for the disproportionate representation of the Iron Warriors.

Actually, she suspected Horus anyway.

Serenity hugged the little girl around the shoulders, "Don't mind them," she stage-whispered. "They're just here to look after everyone."

"Weally?" And she lisped! The Anima was strongly tempted to take the girl home with her, but father had drawn that line firmly. Kittens and bunnies, yes. Human children, no. Poo.

"Oh yes." Serenity gestured with one hand, a complex code that detailed in this case exactly which part of her travelling luggage should be brought out. "They're like big brothers. Do you have a big brother?"

"Uh-huh."

"And does he protect you from bad things?"

The girl frowned in concentration. "I don't think he does."

"I'm sure he does really." The bag had arrived and been unzipped so Serenity reached inside and pulled out one of the two dozen plushies inside. They'd been a gift from someone or other who wanted to curry favour (mmm, curry) stuffed dolls decorated like all her known brothers, her father and prominent members of the Imperial Court. Most probably the person giving the dolls had incorrectly guessed her age. This one was wearing the white and blue armour of the XII Legion and carrying two swords. "Here, this is one of my brothers. His name's Angron and he protects me from bad things all the time. If I had any creepy monsters under my bed... do you ever have monsters under your bed?"

The little girl nodded, eyes wide.

"Well, if any of them tried to get me, he'd smack them good!" Serenity waved the plushie aggressively and then placed the stuffed toy in the girl's arms. "Here, why don't you keep him. That way he can help your brother if he ever has trouble."

A week later stuffed Primarch Angron dolls were the number one gift for little girls in that sector. By the end of the year, the craze had spread to half the planets in the segmentum. Three years later it had reached the other side of the galaxy. A few even reached Eldar Craftworlds although only as items for study and they hardly ever fell into the hands of impressionable Eldar children.

{oOo}

AN: And so, Angron becomes the hero of little girls across the galaxy...


	5. LH: Exchange of Gifts

{oOo}

Mortarion eyed his brother Angron warily. The Primarch of the World Eaters had been unusually well-behaved at this gathering, with almost no accidental maimings and for the most part, he had used his 'inside voice' when talking to people. Which still meant he was clearly audible for a mile or so, but it was nonetheless a substantial improvement.

The reason for Mortarion's caution was simple: it was Persephone's birthday and Serenity had quietly but firmly indicated that the girl was due presents from the entire Imperial Palace. For the most part, this had involved a glut of purchases from local lampmakers although Serenity had presented the smaller girl with a long silver glaive. Angron, however, had a large parcel over one shoulder. The parcel was covered in brown paper and appeared to be... moving.

"Angron, what is that?" he asked cautiously.

The towering man lifted it off his shoulders and proffered it, two handed, to Mortarion's ward. "Merry birthday!" he announced proudly, drawing attention from across the vast ballroom.

Persephone cautiously accepted the gift, with Mortarion discreetly taking most of the weight as he lowered it to the ground. There was something alive in there, he realised in morbid horror. However, he allowed the girl to tear at the brown paper, which seemed extraordinarily resilient. After a moment, Persephone seemed to grow frustrated and picked up Serenity's gift, which made short work of the coverings.

There were intakes of breath all around the world as a huge, bat-winged and purple-furred bear was revealed. Then Persephone squealled in delight and threw herself against the creature's chest, hugging it.

Mortarion's voice was chillingly cold. "Brother, is that Cthellean Cudbear?"

"That's right!"

"They're vicious carnivores!"

Angron's pride was undented. "I housebroke it myself," he announced before leaning over and 'whispering'. "I filed down the teeth and claws too, just in case."

Words failed Mortarion, but Persephone was more eloquent and she abandoned her new pet for a moment to hug Angron's armoured calf. "Thank you, Uncle," she murmured and then pulled a small package out of the veritable mountain of gifts. Mortarion had wondered why she had brought a wrapped present to her own birthday party but had presumed it had arrived early and she was going to open it with the others. "Happy birthday to you."

The towering primarch bent down and took the gift in one massive hand. "How did you know it was my birthday?"

Persephone blushed and scampered back to her Cudbear.

Angron and Mortarion exchanged glances. "Is it actually your birthday?" Mortarion asked in surprise.

"Well I always thought it was yesterday," Angron grunted, turning the package over in his hand. "Must have got the calendar wrong." He lifted the present to his face then closed his teeth on the wrapping paper and yanked, tearing a great swathe away. "Hmm."

"It's a lamp, brother."

The primarch turned it over in his hands. "Ah. How does it... work?"

"There should be a switch..."

Angron found the control at that moment and a stabbing beam of light, analogous to a searchlight, slashed out across the room, perfectly illuminating Corax, who was endeavouring to discreetly drop off a present on the pile. Which was odd, because he'd sent his regrets and claimed he wouldn't be able to attend. "Hi Corax."

"...Angron," the goth-inclined primarch replied with forced civility, trying to hide the package behind him. Unfortunately, this failed to protect him from one of Serenity's hugs...

{oOo}


	6. LH: A Question of Identity I

{oOo}

Cadia was an empty world. All the indicators suggested that it was an ideal planet for humankind and in the absence of man would surely have been selected for colonisation some form of xenos. Instead only a single corner of the world was home to anyone at all. Small, almost unnoticeable tribes of primitive humans that never strayed from their tiny refuge.

But now that he was on Cadia's surface, Kharn no longer wondered why no one had colonised the planet. In fact, he could only wonder that the tribes continued to survive on the howling wasteland and what reason his lord had for summoning him to this distant corner of the galaxy.

Not just him, either. From warzones scattered across entire segementum, out of scores of expeditionary fleets, the World Eaters were assembling. A detachment here, a company there. Four grand companies, a total force of almost five thousand, that had been serving under the Warmaster's command. Kharn himself had been overseeing recruitment from the dregs of a hiveworld halfway to Ultramar and had arrived with four dozen neophytes in tow.

The skies over Cadia were full to bursting as XII Legion ships jostled for postion in the orbtials, their captains as direct and forthright as the World Eaters that they transported. And on a barren, windswept plain, Thunderhawks and Stormbirds were delivering those Astartes to stand in grand parade. It was over a hundred years since Kharn's legion had come together in one place and in those days they were far fewer. Over forty thousand strong, they formed up a line a dozen deep that stretched for ten kilometers. At their back and their flanks were armoured vehicles, the transports and weapon platforms that supported them in battle.

A few old officers, like Kharn himself, walked the lines to seek out old friends among the veterans. One, standing at the very front, did not.

Primarch Angron stood, arms crossed, with his back to the legion.

It wasn't until Kharn reached the front rank that he saw the Astartes at Angron's side. Alone in the see of blue and white, this one wore rich purple battleplate, a slim blade more suited to a duellist than a soldier at his hip.

"My lord," the equerry greeted his primarch, stepping up to reclaim his place at Angron's right hand from this interloper.

Angron did not turn his head. "Kharn."

The purple-clad Astartes wore the heraldry of the 13th Company of the Emperor's Children, Kharn realised as the younger warrior turned to face him. But what was he doing here? The Phoenican and Angron were hardly close. "Captain Kharn," the Emperor's Child greeted him with a shallow bow. "It is an honour. I am Captain Lucius."

Kharn had heard of this young pup. It was claimed that he was unrivalled with the sword. However, the slight unevenness of his nose suggested that someone had demonstrated already that a fist was just as viable as a weapon. Pity it hadn't knocked some of the arrogance out of him. "Likewise." He stepped forwards, pushing into Lucius' personal space. "I have legion business with the Primarch. Excuse me."

Lucius' eyes flickered to Angron's face and whatever he saw there convinced him not to argue. He donned his helmet. "Of course," he agreed and gestured out onto the plain where Kharn's enhanced eyes could barely make out a tiny village of the local barbarians. "I'll check on their progress."

Angron waited until the interloper was almost by not quite out of hearing before glancing sideways at Kharn. "Tactiful of you," he spat in a contemptuous tone that passed for sarcasm when he spoke.

"Why are we here, Lord Angron?"

The primarch frowned in thought, trying to put his motive into words. "Who am I, Walkuf?" he snarled at last.

Kharn blinked. "Walkuf?" he asked incredulously. "What has that... children's entertainment to do with this."

"Everything!" Angron roared and then clenched his fist in front of his face. "Or nothing," he added in a more reasonable voice.

A dozen sarcastic replies crossed Kharn's mind but he didn't bother. Angron could manage sarcasm on his own part but his record of recognising it from others was spotty at best. "That isn't very clear, master."

"Am I... one of those stuffed toys?" Angron asked slowly, apparently straining to get the question out. "Or a mindless dog like Walkuf's Angry One?"

For the first time, Kharn regretted his participation in that project. It had seemed harmless enough at the time. "You are a warrior, Lord Angron. The greatest in all the Imperium."

"Hmph. And when this Great Crusade is over? What use the warrior when the Imperium is one of my sister's tea parties."

Kharn shook his head helplessly, unsure what to say.

"That is what I am here for. To find out."

"And what about him?" Kharn pointed at Lucius' back. "What his role here?"

Angron shrugged his massive shoulders. "What's the word? Someone who goes before."

"Prophet?"

"Do I look like Urizen?"

"No, lord. A guide, perhaps?"

The primarch shook his head and then froze in recollection. A grim smile returned to his face. "I remember now. He's here as a mine detector."

{oOo}

AN: The first of several Angron centered shorts set primarily during the Age of Heresy in Bloody Mary's route.


	7. LH: A Question of Identity II

Lucius was trailed by a violet eyed woman when he returned from the village. Angron, apparently in good humour, nudged Kharn with his elbow. The blow impacted the equerry's ear but he was used to that. "He's got a girlfriend!" the primarch declared in apparent surprise. "I thought his legion were all queer for Fulgrim."

"Most amusing, master," Kharn replied drily, although his lips quirked.

"Angry One," the woman said, going to her knees and genuflecting in front of Angron. His fists clenched and Kharn heard ceramite cracking. He also suspected he saw a smirk on Lucius's lips.

Angron studied his hands, grunted and removed the broken gauntlet from his left hand. "Damn cartoon," he mumbled and then looked down. "Get up, I can't see you properly lying down like that."

Lucius gestured to the woman as she stood. "This is Ingethel. She has been expecting us."

"The god-walkers spoke," Ingethel confirmed. "And the warchiefs heeded them when they said you would come. A man from the stars, a man of great strength. The one who will tear the stars from the skies and tread the thrones of the gods beneath his armoured feet."

Angron spat into the dirt and then pointed with his remaining gauntlet at Lucius. "This one also spoke to me of everlasting glory. Words are cheap."

Her violet eyes were... strange, Kharn thought. Had they been described then he might have thought them to be like those of Mortarian's ward, but these were different. Almost... alien. Her clothes were tanned, some kind of leather? Human skin he thought.

"I shall show you the reality. Come with me, Angron. Your armies have devoured first cities and then entire worlds. Now all of the galaxy shall fall to you."

The primarch crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. Like few others could, Ingethel met his gaze.

"Kharn. At my orders," Angron growled.

"Yes lord."

"Lucius. At my heel."

"I..." the Emperor's Child seemed unsure of the terse order's meaning but he was addressing empty air for Angron was already striding towards the village, barely moderating his pace enough for Ingethel to keep up at a run.

Kharn's lips drew back in contempt. "He means that you follow him." Like a dog, he added mentally.

{oOo}

The sun had set, chilling the winds even more. Still the World Eaters stood in their ranks, uncomplaining. Not because of orders. No order had been given to keep them from breaking ranks if they so chose. Some did, taking brief moments to see to their gear. This was not a parade. It was simply a wait, something that the legion was well used to. A lull that preceded the inevitable: sweet, sweet violence.

The World Eaters did not need the regimented discipline of the Ultramarines or the Imperial Fists. Nor did they seek refuge in the rough camarderie of the Space Wolves or White Scars. All they needed was readiness to kill. Disappointly, that was often enough to convince human opposition to surrender. They had that sort of reputation.

It was sometime after local midnight that Lucius came staggering back to their lines, his face white.

"Is something the matter?" asked Dreagher, whose company waited there. His Astartes looked at their purple-clad cousin and one of them muttered an ancient word that they had learned from the Primarch. From the dialect of the long destroyed city of Desh'ea, it translated as 'sissy'.

"There was screaming," Lucius whispered under his breath. "And... things." He was actually swaying.

"'Things'?" the Captain of the 11th Company replied, incredulously.

Lucius nodded vigorously and gestured with his hands as if trying to describe something. He failed. "Stuff," he said as if that clarified anything. "I should go back."

Dreagher had fought alongside III Legion before. He didn't recall their Captains being such sissies before. "You are back."

"Oh. Good." Lucius fell over.

It was only now that Dreagher saw that a rather large wooden stake had been driven through the back of his armour and up into his chest. Well that made a bit more sense, although the idiot should probably have reported that first. "You two," he indicated two of his World Eaters. "Take him to the apothecary's Rhino." Then he activated his vox. It was Kharn's job to deal with this sort of crap.

{oOo}


	8. LH: A Question of Identity III

{oOo}

At dawn the next day Kharn led an advance party forwards to investigate what was happening at the village. Up close it looked even more primitive than he had at first presumed, little more than leather tents, many of which had evidently been on fire at some point during the night. At first glance there didn't seem to be anywhere intact enough to be disguising someone the size of a Primarch. (And even by that standard, Angron would be catagorised as extra-large).

Fortunately, the equerry had thought ahead and brought along an auspex. "You know, we really should have noticed these caves when we were deploying," he observed mildly.

"We did," Dreagher told him. "Our lines have covering fire of all the sections nearest to the surface in our general vicinity."

"Of course." Kharn scanned the area and then gestured to one of the tents. "Under there."

The passages that had been dug down into the ground were considerately large enough for a fully armoured primarch and therefore more than large enough for two Astartes to walk abreast. Whoever had dug them had also thought of the decoration, they were marked with carvings and mural of battle. Kharn couldn't help but admit as he and mired a crude but compelling depiction of World Eaters locked in battle against orks that they felt rather homey. Wait... why would primitive tribesmen paint World Eaters into their art before they had ever encountered them?

The artwork grew more disturbing as they marched deeper into Cadia, but somehow also more compelling. Other legions were depicted... but they weren't just fighting xenos. Other imperial elements were in conflict with them and Dreagher admitted to rather admiring what appeared to be Astartes triumphing over a giant warmachine before recognising the machine as an imperial titan marked as belonging to the Legion Mortis.

And then there were the portrayals of their primarch.

Angron, slaying what were recognisably Eldar.

Angron, locked in combat with warriors clad in the same blue as the armour of the Ultramarines Legion.

Angron, sat on a throne, someone chained before him.

Kharn paused and examined the latter picture because it showed signed of recent defacement. He couldn't make out who it was that was supposed to be his master's captive in the artwork, the stone had been smashed to render them unrecognisable. All he could make out for sure was long brown hair. Very strange.

Ultimately they found Angron after Dreagher heard echoes reminiscent of someone howling in fury. As they got closer Kharn recognised what was going on and called a halt. "I know what that is," he told them. "I'll go on ahead."

"What if the Primarch is locked in battle and needs us?"

Kharn shook his head firmly. "No. This isn't battle. There's no reason to expose you to this." He walked on, leaving a dozen confused World Eaters behind as he cursed himself for unleashing this horror on the universe.

He'd only had the best of intentions, trying to civilize his Primarch enough to interact with the rest of Imperial society. Sailor Neptune and Sailor Uranus still refused to forgive him, even after a hundred years.

The passage Kharn was following led into a larger cavern, this one decorated with dead bodies. There were numerous wooden stakes half-buried in the ground. Some of them had corpses jammed onto the other ends. The floor was covered in gore and sections of what was recognisably Angron's armour.

The Primarch himself sat unperturbed in the midst of the carnage, sewing together a sack of grey skin with a bone needle and what looked like human sinew. Worst of all, he was singing.

Some of the Primarchs were good singers. Sanguinius and Fulgrim notably, but even Leman Russ was said to have an excellent, if unpractised, baritone. Angron, putting it mildly, did not.

What was worse was that he enjoyed singing.

Probably because he knew how awful it sounded.

Fortunately, Angron broke off his song when Kharn set foot inside the chamber. "I left you with the Legion for a reason."

"I came after you for a reason."

The primarch snorted. "Fine. Pick up my armour then." He held out the bag and Kharn accepted it grudgingly. "It won't be long now."

"What won't be long?"

Angron's eyes blazed. "Until they come."

{oOo}


	9. LH: A Question of Identity IV

{oOo}

There was another army deploying onto the plains of Cadia when they reached the surface. They swarmed out of the hills as if the fleet in orbit had not done a deep scan of the area before landing the World Eaters. Soldiers and warmachines poured out, a host that dwarfed the World Eaters. Kharn squinted at them. Some of them were human, he thought. Many were not. And the warmachines ranged from a near match to those of the Imperial Army to the bizarre. An entire valley was clogged by what seemed to be giant scorpions of brass scuttling forwards.

In fact that was one matter of uniformity: almost without exception the hordes assembling in front of the World Eaters wore a mix of red and brass.

"Who are they? Where did they come from?"

Angron frowned. "I didn't ask."

"What?"

"It never came up." The primarch shrugged. His armour, rattled in the bag behind him. There hadn't been enough left for him to wear so he was walking back to his legion with nothing more than an improvised kilt to see to his dignity. Then again, he hadn't looked very different when Kharn first met him.

Kharn groaned. "But these are the ones that you're waiting for?"

"S'right."

"And what are they here for?"

Angron's smile was a terrible thing to behold. "Once I get my spare battleplate on, we can go over and you can ask them yourself."

Kharn blinked and then thumbed the activation rune on his axe, which roared to life reassuringly. "I suppose it's less distance to charge them."

"That's the spirit," laughed Angron.

{oOo}


	10. LH: Two Women, Angron and a Shower

{oOo}

With her nose buried in a medical journal the blue-haired Senshi barely noticed the woman running through the starboard gallery of the battle barge Extreme Prejudice. Under the circumstances, a woman running away made perfect sense: most people did when Angron sang in the shower.

Tekhne wouldn't be going in this direction at all if the Extreme Prejudice wasn't carrying a small library of obscure medical texts gathered from the recently pacified sectors of the Obscura region. In order to keep them safe, Angron had stored them next to his quarters. Fortunately, the belt of emergency supplies Perturabo had given her on their wedding anniversary contained ear plugs.

Her progress was interrupted when the woman grabbed her shoulders and started shaking her in hysteria. With a sigh, Tekhne looked up from her book and looked at her lips long enough to read the words that they were uttering.

"Here." With one hand she pulled out her spare earplugs and offered them.

Gratefully the other woman took them with her blue hand.

Tekhne blinked. Wait, what was that?

Thank you, thank you, she saw the lips say. I've never heard such horrible singing before.

Tekhne held up a hand, stepped back a bit and got a better look. Ah. That daemon bitch that hurt Fulgrim.

Beryl hugged the Senshi impulsively. Listen, Fulgrim needs help. I wanted to ask Angron but -

BLAM!

Tekhne's holdout boltpistol went skidding down the corridor as the recoil tore it from her hands. That kept happening - she'd ask Pertuarbo for a less powerful holdout if incidents like this didn't prove that she really needed it.

Wait, what was that about Fulgrim?

{oOo}

AN: Again, set after the Age of Heresy, and after Fulgrim's rescue from the painting.


	11. LH: Daemonskin Bag of Asskicking

{oOo}

Fulgrim looked up as the door opened. He wasn't expecting visitors, although Sanguinius might have returned earlier than expected. Then again, he didn't think that his winged brother would kick the door open again...

Oh.

Angron glared at his brother for a moment and then reached down and wrapped the fingers of one hand around the crown of Fulgrim's head. For a moment the tormented primarch couldn't help but shudder at the thought of those stained fingers touching his immaculate silver hair. Then he remembered that his hair wasn't exactly immaculate at the moment.

He didn't resist as Angron dragged him to his feet. "Get off your arse. Your legion need you."

It genuinely didn't occur to Fulgrim that maybe he should resist until he was being thrown face first at the wall. His nose broke. So did the brickwork.

"Are you crazy?" he exclaimed, trying to scramble back. "What are you -!"

"They don't need you to be pretty. They don't need you to be sane..." A very nasty smile cracked Angron's lips as he grabbed Fulgrim by the ankle and hurled him across the room, breaking an abandoned attempt at taking up sculpture again. "My boys do fine with me."

Scrambling to his feet, Fulgrim jumped away from Angron, feeling his body moving in that same unnatural fashion... his vision blurred and when it cleared he got a very brief, very clear view of his brother's knuckles. And then his nose exploded in pain again.

Angron gave him a judicious look and then kicked him savagely below the ribs. This time, however, Fulgrim rallied and somehow turned his instinctive attempt to curl into a ball into a roll forwards and lashed out with one foot. There was a pained grunt and he looked to see that his heel had made crushing contact with his brother's groin. Angron's smile grew even wider. "They just need that."

He turned and walked away, apparently unconcerned by the kick. "Can't stay, got a rebellion to crush. Brought you something though."

The bag he produced from outisde the door was clearly made by amateur hands. Fulgrim couldn't place the fabric though. "What's in made of?"

"Daemonhide." Angron answered absently. "First one that I..."

"Killed?" Alright, Fulgrim did NOT like the twinkle in Angron's eye at that suggestion.

"That too." He unfastened the neck of the bag and pulled a small... blue and white...

"I thought you hated those things?" Fulgrim exclaimed as he caught the Plushie Angron.

"S'right." Angron buckled up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. "Hear they're good against monsters under beds though."

And then he was gone and Fulgrim sat clutching the doll, laughing until he cried and crying until he laughed.

{oOo}

AN: And here is Angron's attempt at 'therapy'.


	12. LH: A Question of Identity V

{oOo}

The leader of the army was a giant in armour of brass, larger even than Angron. Unlike many of the leaders assembled around him - at least Kharn thought they were leaders, perhaps champions would be a more apt description - his proportions were broadly human. "I AM DOOMBREED, FAVOURED CHAMPION OF KHORNE!"

"Oh Serenity, there are two of them," Kharn whispered, earning himself a nasty look from Lucius, who had been patched up and insisted on following them to meet the army. "I am Kharn, Equerry to Angron!" he replied.

"IT ALWAYS PLEASES ME TO WELCOME A FELLOW HUMAN TO OUR RANKS. YOUR DEEDS WILL BE FELL AND GLORIOUS!"

"THEY HAVE BEEN SO FAR," Angron said, causing Kharn to blink as he realised he had been complimented. If it were possible he would have stood straighter.

"What brings you to Cadia?" asked Kharn.

"WAR!" Doombreed roared enthusiastically.

Angron nodded solemnly.

"ARE YOU PREPARED KINSMAN?" the giant demanded. "TO LEAD THIS WARHOST INTO EPIC CONFLICT, TO SPILL BLOOD FOR MY MASTER KHORNE AND TO HEAP SKULLS IN HIS HONOUR?"

Wait what?

Kharn looked over to his master, who drew his swords. "HOW CAN I REFUSE SUCH A CHALLENGE?"

Doombreed laughed. "I KNOW THE FEELING! IMAGINE IT, THE GALAXY AT OUR FEET, THE SLAUGHTER ONE THAT WILL BE SPOKEN OF IN HUSHED WORDS FOR A THOUSAND GENERATIONS!"

"IT WILL BE GLORIOUS,"Angron boomed. "THAT ONE -" he indicated Lucius "- SPOKE OF OATHS."

"INDEED." Doombreed gestured and two warriors - almost lizard like - dragged forwards a bundle. Using the butt of his axe he carved a rune in the barren soil between them in savage strokes. "HERE." He flung the bundle upon the ground, whipping away the blanket to reveal a child, a human child. "HER BLOOD SHALL SEAL THE COMPACT."

Angron stared down at the child, Kharn staring at him in horror. He couldn't really mean to do this, could he? "IT HARDLY SEEMS SUFFICIENT," the Primarch mused. "KHARN, KILL LUCIUS FOR ME."

Lucius, Captain of III Legion's 13th Company was possessed of superb, one might even say perfect reflexes. His power blade was out and he thrust it Kharn's chest, piercing his fellow Astartes' heart in a single lunge.

Then Kharn's fist closed around his opponent's wrist, pinning him in place. With his other hand, Kharn brought his axe down squarely upon the other Captain's helmet, the teeth of the chainaxe screaming as they tore through the ceramite armour. The noise was replaced by a slurping sound as they ripped almost without effort through the reinforced bone of skull and into the soft tissue of Lucius' brain. "My primarch, it is done."

The lord of the World Eaters lifted Lucius up over the rune and the child that squatted upon it. "THIS IS MORE WORTHY," he declared and tore open the astarte's battle plate, showering child and mark alike with blood and gore.

Doombreed threw back his head. "YES! MASTER IT IS DONE!" The planet itself seemed to shake in confirmation.

{oOo}


	13. LH: A Question of Identity VI

{oOo}

Kharn heard his vox chirp the code that to the educated ear of a Astartes indicated an override signal from the fleet above. "Extreme Predjudice to all command rank World Eaters. Multiple warp emergences, estimated to be space hulks."

"Lord..."

"I know." Angron picked up the bloodsoaked child, his voice lowered to normal conversational levels, and handed her to Kharn. "See to her. And yourself."

The equerry grimaced, feeling the distant pain of his wound, dulled by the complex chemicals being poured liberally into him by the systems of his battleplate. "And you, lord?"

Angron turned away from him, which was answer enough. "THERE'S SOMETHING I MUST SAY TO YOU, DOOMBREED." Kharn, walking away from them heard another note from his vox. This one signified a vox override from Angron himself. He knew that the words about to be spoken would be heard by every World Eater - not only the Astartes but every man and woman in their service that was in the system.

Doombreed seemed not to notice this. "WHAT WOULD YOU SAY TO ME, BROTHER?"

In centuries of service Kharn had never heard Angron's voice so low, so sibilant, so filled with bloodlust. It was a veritable hiss as he whispered: "this is how i refuse." There was a crash of sword against axe as the startled Doombreed barely parried Angron's blazingly fast cutting stroke. "KILL THEM ALL!"

No other order was needed.

No other order was desired.

Without the slightest hesitation forty thousand World Eaters hurled themselves forwards, weapons raised.

"TREACHERY!" Doombreed's mighty axe smashed down on Angron, who met it force on force, blocking with one sword as he thrust the other towards the face of his enemy. The two giants duelled as their armies rushed together, screaming for blood, the World Eaters as enthused as their enemies.

"Damn you," Kharn whispered as he carred the child away. "Damn you Angron, for making me miss this."

{oOo}


	14. Tact & Taunting

{oOo}

There are a number of unstated duties that attach to the role of Primarch's Equerry. Precisely what those duties are depends heavily on the actual Primarch of course. In the case of Kharn, Captain of the 8th Company of the World Eaters Legion, one of them was teaching his Primarch some degree of tact and diplomacy.

"Sister!" Angron called out as he escorted his companion into the Imperial Palace. Courtiers scattered prudently out of the way as the towering figure charged brutally across the mile-wide corridor to sweep up the princess in a bone-crushing hug. Kharn nodded approvingly and quietly called in a medical team for two ambassadors who hadn't quite been fast enough and were now suffering from broken bones. This was a substantial reduction in the usual casualties.

Angron hesitated for a moment, wracking his mind for what came next. "Are you well?" he asked.

"I've very well, Angron," Serenity assured him and kissed his cheek. "How are you."

"I've..." He remembered her polite but excruciating lecture the last time he told her about his skull collection. "I've brought our brother Corax to meet you."

Serenity's eyes flickered to the dark-haired giant who was looking around the palace, pretending not to be impressed. "That's very sweet of you Angron."

The primarch lowered his voice so that the basso rumble could only be heard by everyone in _this_ wing of the Palace. "He was a prison bitch," he confided in a sincere attempt to be discreet.

Kharn removed his helmet and started hitting his face against the nearest wall as Corax glowered and Serenity blushed.

{oOo}


	15. LH: Brotherly Bonding

{oOo}

Everyone knew that there was some kind of tension between the two Primarchs as soon as Mortarion walked into the conference chamber. Then again, it wasn't as if the sudden change in Angron's body language was hard to miss. One moment he was using one finger to idly doodle on a map with red wine spilled from his goblet, the next his fists were clenched and his eyes were locked upon Mortarion.

As soon as the strategy for the coming battle had been decided, Angron shot to his feet. "EVERYBODY OUT!" he roared, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. "NOT YOU!" he added when Mortarion began to step prudently back from the map table.

"My lord," Kharn asked cautiously. "What -"

"I SAID OUT!"

Kharn's exit from the tent was through a hole in the fabric that hadn't previously existed and it ultimately took thirteen tech-priests to free him from the tangled barrels of a Hydra self-propelled anti-aircraft platform that he'd collided with.

The following conversation was rather muffled to those outside, which didn't stop rumours from spreading through the less responsible members of the headquarters staff.

"What is that!" Angron snarled as patiently as he could manage.

Mortarion twisted his head around to look in the indicated direction, which was over his left shoulder. "This is Persephone. Persephone, this is my brother Angron."

"Not interested in you being a pedo like father! What's she holding?"

The Death Guard's primarch counted to ten. "Persephone, could you fetch me a cookie please. And one for you as well." There was a scrambling noise from his back and the little girl scampered out of the tent, still clutching her plushie Angron under one arm.

"Firstly, brother," Mortarion replied. "That is a toy. Persephone idolises you, as do many children."

Angron's brow furrowed at this strange concept.

"Secondly, do you know what that word means?"

"What, 'toy'? Yes, of course."

"No, 'pedo'."

The other primarch scratched his head. "Not... exactly."

Mortarion explained.

"BY OUR FATHER! HOW DO YOU KNOW THESE THINGS. YOU PERVERSE BASTARD!" roared Angron. "I SHOULD -"

That was when Mortarion punched him in the face. By the time Persephone returned, half the tent had been torn down and Angron, sporting a black eye, had succeeded in breaking his brother's nose. Fortunately, Mortarion had also managed to persuade his brother that he was not, in fact, a 'pedo' and the two Primarchs were sitting on a broken tank (that had been in excellent repair when the girl left) and watching the tech-priests trying to free Kharn.

"Thank you," Mortarion said, accepting his cookie from the girl. He shot a prompting look at Angron when Persephone tenatively produced a third cookie and offered it to him.

"Thanks," replied Angron, who thought one of his teeth might be loose and was pushing at it with one armoured finger. He shoved the cookie into his mouth as Persephone retreated back behind Mortarion and there was a mighty crunch as he bit down.

Mortarion nodded sagely. "Was that one of Serenity's cookies you gave him?" he asked the girl now clutching his calf as Angron yanked a broken tooth out of his mouth and stared at it in disbelief.

Persephone nodded and squeezed her plushie Angron tighter.

{oOo}


	16. Angron and Bad PR

{oOo}

The Prime Lord of Eskrador stared defiantly at the screen. "My world will never bow to your Emperor, girl," he declared boldly.

Serenity shook her head sadly. "Is there no way I can persuade you? Otherwise I will have to ask my brother to bring your world into compliance. I beg of you, think of the people who will die as a result of your decision."

"I care not if Horus himself besieges our world! We will never surrender!"

"Oh, it won't be Horus," the princess assured him. "The nearest of my brothers is Angron."

The Prime Lord hesitated. "Angron the World Eater? The Angry One?"

"Er... yes." Serenity had to admit her brother did have a somewhat overblown reputation.

"I, uh, saw the cartoon," the Prime Lord admitted sheepishly. "But surely that incident on Ghenna was merely Imperial propaganda."

"Well the cartoon didn't really explain the politics, which were more complicated than they looked. And the violence had to be toned down before it could be shown to children."

"But he..." the noble blanched. He had thought that the bloody finale of that episode was comically overstated. "Um... you mean he really cut the..." he remembered that he was speaking to a lady. "...uh, maimed the city's ruler like that?"

Serenity coloured. "Oh dear. Umm... well technically yes..." This was painting such a terrible image of the Imperium.

"So about that treaty you wanted me to sign... when would be a good time?" Being a vassal to the Imperium would have to be less intrusive to the Prime Lord than what Primarch Angron apparently did to the leadership of human worlds that opposed them.

{oOo}


	17. LH: Sheep, Goats and Wise Men

{oOo}

"GUILLEMAN!" roared Angron from the entrance of the hall currently occupying the administrative personnel of the Ultramarines Legion.

Said administrative staff could instantly be divided three ways.

The sheep assumed a raging Primarch was charging towards them, intend on mayhem, and tried to hide behind Roboute Guilleman.

The goats recalled that this was Angron's normal speaking voice and rather pointedly did not overreact.

The wise men remembered that Angron was also... careless... about not accidentally damaging people and furniture. They ran for their lives, clutching every dataslate they could sweep up.

Just by entering the room, the primarch of the World Eaters had set Guilleman's staff back a day's work. There was a scraping sound from behind him. Goats being scattered as Angron ploughed uncaring through them on his way towards his brother might have tracked this to a fully armoured Kharn, who was hanging onto Angron's cape, digging his heels in and desperately trying to hold his Primarch back - without noticeable effect.

"How may I be of assistance or education to you, brother?" Roboute asked, not looking up from the dataslate where he was expounding on the vital nature of standardising ammunition clips for Astartes boltguns.

"WHY'D YOU WANT TO BREAK MY LEGION UP!"

"That is not the nature of my proposed programme of reorganisation. The goal is to optimise response times to crises as the management loop of the Imperium grows more extended due to the dilution of available manpower and limits of intercommunication of -"

Angron seized a chair (spilling a cringing clerk out of it) and sat on it. It broke almost immediately so the Primarch reseated himself on the table without pause. It creaked alarmingly. "YOU WANT A THOUSAND ASTARTES IN EVERY SECTOR!"

"That is the preferred ratio," Guilleman agreed, unfazed. He'd been dealing with Angron for decades and this was nothing new.

"I'VE GOT DIBS ON THE SEGMENTUM OBSCURA!"

"You do not have a prior claim on any sector, brother and no administrative authority will be ceded as part of this reassessment of our operational procedures."

"BUT ALL YOUR LEGION'S ASTARTES WILL GET POSTED TO PLACES AROUND YOUR LITTLE ULTRAMARCH EMPIRE, RIGHT?"

Guilleman's eyebrow twitched. "If you are referring to the region of Ultramar, which happens to be under the administration of my Legion just as you could have claimed your homeworld had you so cared to do so -"

"S'RIGHT."

"- I assure you there will be a fair and equitable division of sectors that is in keeping with the strategic needs of the Imperium."

Angron stood up and leant deliberately into Guilleman's personal space. "DIBS. ON. SEGMENTUM. OBSCURA." Then he lowered his voice. "Write it down!"

Guilleman sighed and obediently wrote the words on his dataslate in his usual concise calligraphy. "Is there anything else?"

His brother frowned in thought. "You're getting fat. Go exercise more," he suggested and turned, whipping Kharn (still hanging onto his cloak) around in a dangerous fashion that led to Guilleman's carefully organized desk being spread across a quarter of the hall.

Within seventy-two hours, the Ultramarines Legion was virtually besieged by representatives of planet, system and entire sector authorities from four Segmentums, all insisting that Guilleman guarantee that they would not face the assignment of elements of XII Legion to their respective fiefs. Only the Segmentum Obscura remained relentlessly quiet. One might even say cowed.

{oOo}

AN: Set after/during the Age of Heresy in Bloody Mary's continuity.


	18. Two Reasons for Brother to Fight Brother

{oOo}

"HELLO BROTHER."

Horus turned and saw Angron standing in the doorway, flanked by a pair of World Eaters in terminator armour. "You? I was expecting more impressive guests."

"GUARD THE DOORS," the loyal primarch ordered his sons and without question the duo stepped back and closed the entrance. "FATHER IS ON HIS WAY. I ARRANGED FOR HIM TO BE TELEPORTED SOME DISTANCE AWAY FROM YOU."

"Let me guess, you want to try to reason with me?"

Angron gave him a blank look.

"Ah yes, I had forgotten. So why did you ensure that you reached me first?" Horus asked mockingly. He drew his sword, a daemonblade as long as he was tall. The weapon screamed in bloodlust as it detected Angron's presence.

Horus' brother stepped forwards. "FATHER WOULD PROBABLY TRY TO REASON WITH YOU. HE'S TOO MUCH LIKE SERENITY SOMETIMES."

"But you aren't, of course."

"I AM NOT A WISE MAN, BUT I AM A STRONG ONE AND I KNOW YOU HAVE COME TOO FAR FOR WORDS TO CHANGE YOUR MIND."

"So that's it?" Horus chuckled. "You've come here to spare father the pain of confronting me? Do you think I'l believe you could be so 'noble'?"

His brother smiled, baring sharpened teeth. "WELL... HAVEN'T YOU EVER WONDERED WHO WOULD WIN BETWEEN THE TWO OF US?" Angron asked, drawing his swords.

Horus gave his brother an amused look. "No."

Horus yanked at the hilt of his sword to remove it from Angron's body. If it wasn't so horrible, the Emperor might have been amused that the sword failed to move.

"I see my brother seems too fond of my sword to relinquish it." Horus released the hilt and then picked up Angron's remaining blade. "I trust he will have no objection to my borrowing this." He paused as if waiting for Angron to respond. "How generous," he murmured when no response came.

The Emperor spoke a word of power and his loyal son's sword shattered in the hand of the traitor, shards piercing Horus' hands through his gauntlets.

{oOo}

AN: Another peek into the universe titled 'Heresy and Rebirth'.


	19. Heresy & Rebirth: Return of the King

{oOo}

The codes that admitted the ship through the orbital defenses were ancient.

If the registry was to be believed, the ship itself was even older - a Strike Frigate built for the Space Wolves to replace vessels lost during the immediate aftermath of the Heresy and condemned as unsalvageable sometime in the 33rd Millennium.

When Ragnar Blackmane learned the pedigree of the Stormbird that settled upon an icy platform jutting out from the Fang, he was impressed to learn that it had been constructed on Terra itself, before the Great Crusade, as part of the initial equipment of what was then known only as the VI Legion of the Astartes.

"Who's aboard that thing?" Gunnar asked, looking at the large transport settling uneasily onto the platform. While there was in theory enough room for it, the ice made the landing hazardous.

Beside the Wolf Lord, Ranek crossed his arms across his chest. "That's what we're here to find out."

"You could get the whole Great Company aboard a ship that large," the Wolf Guard grumbled. "How do we know this isn't another of Madox's tricks?"

"We don't," Egil told him.

Ragnar shook his head, setting his topknot swaying. "The codes are genuine. The Great Wolf woke half the Ancients to check their authenticity. He wouldn't tell me what they said."

"That's keeping things awfully close to his chest."

"He usually has his reasons." Ragnar stepped forwards as the Stormbird settled at last and the engines began to spool down. "And we'll find out who's aboard any minute now."

The four Space Wolves fanned out slightly as they advanced towards the forward hatch of the troop transport, automatically spacing themselves so that no sudden assault could overwhelm them at once. However, the hatch lowered slowly, unlike the sudden crash typical of the Thunderhawks that they were more accustomed to. Either the machine-spirit was exhausted, possible in a craft so old, or those aboard were deliberately taking their time in order to avoid the appearance of aggression.

Shadows inside masked the face of the Astartes standing at the top of the ramp but it was clear immediately that he was a giant even by those standards and wore armour the same grey that adorned that of the Space Wolves in front of him.

When he stepped forwards into the light, Ragnar got an impression of an ivory mane of hair and a beard woven into long braids, but what caught his attention were the eyes. Golden eyes.

Wolf eyes.

The new arrival bared his lips, revealing the unmistakable long fangs of an aged Space Wolf. "Your welcome is not warm, warriors."

"Nor is Fenris, as you should recall," Egil replied when neither Wolf Lord nor Wolf Priest seemed inclined to respond.

"It has always welcomed me."

Ragnar remembered the feel of a spear in his hands. He had seen this man portrayed a thousand times but now he faced the reality.

"Russ..." he murmured.

The Wolf-King nodded solemnly. "Aye."

That simple word elicited gasps from Egil and Gunnar but Ranek sank to one knee, gesturing sharply for the two Wolf Guard to follow suit. Only Ragnar stood face to chest with his ultimate progenitor as a second giant, this one cloaked and hooded in black, stepped forwards to join the conversation.

"Why have you returned, after all these centuries?"

A thin smile touched the ancient Primarch's face. "A wolf-time is upon the Imperium. An age of strife and darkness, but also an age of great deeds. Such things require... preparation. The gathering of lore, the forging of weapons... the assembly of heroes."

He stepped forwards, his companion remaining at the hatch. Lights flickered behind them, illuminating capsule after capsule, each marked by the eerie stillness of a stasis field. "My lost brothers have much to learn about themselves," Russ observed forebodingly as he set foot on the stone of Fenris for the first time in nine eons.

{oOo}

AN: Another drabble for the "Heresy and Rebirth" continuity.


	20. Heresy & Rebirth: Palace Crawling I

{oOo}

It seemed as if Russ had only been on Fenris for a few moments, although he knew looking back that he had stayed there for almost a standard month after Corax left aboard their faithful ship the Redemption of the Fallen to see to the wellbeing of his own Legion. Perhaps when matters here were done, Russ could return home once more.

"I must be getting old," he confided to Ranek, who had been detached by Ragnar to accompany him on this journey.

The old Wolf Priest refrained from smiling. "If it were not for your fangs, I would mistake you for a stripling Blood Claw in need of firm guidance, Wolf King."

"It's my youthful charm that does it," Russ agreed and kicked open the door.

Fifty thousand petitioners and Administratium clerks scattered as the Primarch sprinted along the mile-wide hallway, Ranek panting for breath as he tried his best to keep up.

At the far end of the hall, four more-than-human eyes assessed the approaching giant and raised their guardian spears before bringing the butts of the lances down up on the floor with such terrific force (the plaform beneath the door the guarded was reinforced against just such impacts) that the floor boomed like a drum. "**Hail to the Wolf King, Primarch of the VI Legion, Son of the Emperor, Leman Russ approaches,**" they cried out in unison.

Russ skidded to a halt in front of them. "Hah, one of these days I'll make it here before you finish that spiel!" He glanced at the towering doors, each panel so large that life sized statues of long forgotten potentates were carved into them, each in fabulously expensive materials that might once have represented their wealth or their places of origin. Even the Wolf King did not remember who they were, although Horus or Serenity might have. "Are you going to let me in?"

The Custodes brought their lances down again again. "Wolf Priest of the VI Legion, Counsellor to Wolf Lord Ragnar Blackmane, Aide to the Primarch Leman Russ, Ranek approaches!" they intoned solemnly as the Space Wolf caught up.

Only then did the Custodes step aside to allow the doors to open, admitting the pair into the the towering antechamber that seperated the outer hall of the Imperial Palace, the portions open to freely to the noble and affluent of the Imperium, to the chanceries occupied by the administrators and politicans who directly executed the commands of the Terran Council.

Ranek had never visited the palace before and while he had heard and believed the tales, nothing really prepares you for a chamber large enough for an Imperator Titan to stand within. He knew it was that large because to reach the antechamber's other door (which he could see were guarded by Astartes in bronze-trimmed black and grey) he would have to walk between the legs of just such a Titan.

"I think I've fought campaigns that didn't involve walking such distances," he grumbled. "Haven't you people heard of Rhinos?"

"They wreck the carpets," Russ explained. "Serenity wouldn't speak to Jaghatai and Lion for a solid month after they had a race."

"Landspeeders then?"

The doors crashed closed behind them, to the sound of Russ laughing.

The Custodes were silent. Of course, they didn't need to speak to know what the other was thinking. Working together for ten eons helps with that.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE STAIRS ARE TOO STEEP!" Ranek's howl was audible despite the thickness of the doors.

{oOo}

AN: Another piece from the Heresy & Rebirth 'verse.


	21. Heresy & Rebirth: Palace Crawling II

{oOo}

Ranek was certain he'd have got to their destination faster if he'd brought a jump-pack and a chainsword. As an added bonus he would get to kill some of the Iron Warriors who were guarding this particular section of the palace. The Imperial Palace's protection was vested in the Custodes and beyond them, the Luna Wolves and a handful of rigorously screened regiments of the Imperial Guards. The presence of the Iron Warriors was nothing to do with the Palace and everything to do with the person that Russ had come here to see.

The first thing that the Wolf Priest saw inside the office was scale model of the Imperial Palace. It was about the size of a Baneblade and on closer inspection was entirely made out of data slates. He could only assume that some of the Iron Warriors were very, very bored.

"Are you trying to surpass Dorn's masterpiece?" Russ called, walking around the pile.

"Russ. What brings you here?" Ranek was startled by the sight of the man at the giant desk behind the dataslates. In size, he was nearly equal to the Wolf-King and his grey robes were matched by slate-grey hair and pallid compexion. "It's only been nine thousand years, you can't have gallivanted around more than half of the Imperium in that time."

Leman Russ did not appear concerned by the venom in the other Primarch's voice. "I'm here to see you, brother."

"Why, did you get Corax killed as well?"

Ranek gasped.

"No Perturabo. He's on his way back to the Raven Guard, to resume their leadership." Russ' voice was patient.

"So you've given up at last." Peturabo used a stylus to scratch a signature onto the slate he was reading. "I'd be more sympathetic if you hadn't got Vulkan and Jaghatai killed in your chasing after ghosts and phantoms."

There was an edge in the primarch's voice as he replied: "I didn't give up. I'm done because we finished our quest."

Perturabo used the stylus to scratch at his brow. "Now you're just being ridiculous."

"And you're hiding behind ornamental dataslates."

"That," he pointed at the scuplture, "Is. My. In-tray. It might be a little by smaller if certain people had handled their responsibilities instead of running off."

"And it won't even be your responsibility once Serenity returns! Have faith, brother!"

Ranek saw what might have been the slightest trace of moisture in the corner of Perturabo's eyes. "She isn't coming back, Russ. After all this time how can you still be clinging to that notion?"

"How can you not? You've read Konrad's prophecies and even aside from that; you knew our sister even longer than I did. How can you imagine that she would not be just as determined to return as we are to find her."

Perturabo's fist crashed into the desk. "Face reality Russ! This is the Imperium," he gestured fiercely at the slates, causing the Iron Warrior replenishing the heap on his desk to duck reflexively. "War on a hundred fronts, and when those are done an army of bureaucrats to be sent in with mops to make good the damage. It isn't the old days, there are no grand crusades any more! There's just me and billions depending on me to hold the universe together! I don't have time for your nonsense!"

"No one's saying what you've done hasn't been important," Russ said, trying to be gentle. "You're doing a grand job, but there needs to be hope."

The other Primarch didn't seem to hear him, instead stabbing one finger at various slates. "If I don't handle this then half a sector starves. This one goes wrong and two sectors will follow Ultramar's example..."

"What's he talking about?"

Ranek grimaced. "About half the sectors on the Eastern Fringe are sending their tithes to Macragge not Earth. The Ultramarines Legion claims it's to foster greater efficiency..."

"I thought they broke up after Guilleman got put in stasis."

"Uh, they formed a grand conclave and formed a loose federation of Chapters in the early 39th Millenium."

"Hmm, the things you miss..." Russ shook his head. "I'll take care of the Ultramarines," he said in a louder voice.

Perturabo broke off from ranting. "You'll what?"

"I said, I'll handle them. Father created the Space Wolves to manage rogue Astartes. That makes Ultramar my responsibility."

The other Primarch laughed bitterly. "You think they'll listen? I had a job stopping them from burning your precious Fenris to the bedrock after that stunt you pulled trying to sabotage the stasis field around Guilleman."

Russ shrugged. "If he doesn't die, he can't be reborn. It's why only thirteen of our brothers have been reborn. Anyway, I'll make them listen."

"DON'T YOU DARE START **ANOTHER** CIVIL WAR!" Perturabo roared, surging to his feet.

{oOo}


	22. Heresy & Rebirth: Identification I

{oOo}

The twelve of them stood on the gallery overlooking the entrance hall and watched as Astartes entered. There had been thirteen of them last time, but Matthias, who Leman Russ had code-named Regis, had been the one called forward to be taken away by the red-armoured Astartes who arrived the month before. The Thousand Sons, they had been called. Teleute remembered Matthias questioning the Wolf Priests about the other Legions and their complexity, his dismay when they had refused him access to a library, claiming that there was no such store of written lore anywhere in the ancient fortress.

So naturally, the one who could have identified the legion or chapter (she wasn't entirely clear on the distinction) of the new arrivals was gone first, leaving them to guess. If she wasn't the one selected this time, Teleute swore she would question the Priests and force everyone else to memorise the basic colour schemes of the original Legions.

"Does anyone remember which legions use white?" she asked and then saw that while the leading Astartes were wearing white power armour, there was a cluster of four at the back wearing black. "Or black - are two Legions arriving at once?"

Dorias ducked behind her and crammed into a corner between her and a wall, ducking his head to avoid visibility. "I don't know," he muttered, "But whoever they are, I hope they call for me. Or Umi. Is she...?" He looked around furtively.

"Stay down," Teleute hissed as she saw the other girl scanning the group. Leman Russ, who claimed to be their brother (how that worked, Teleute had no idea: she'd spent most of the first week in his company caught between religious awe and dread that somehow she'd done something terrible and his legendary wrath would suddenly be directed at her) had designated Umi as Predator and it was an apt choice. All the feral girl seemed interested in was food, fighting and... well there was a reason Dorias tried to avoid her, although he didn't put up much resistance on the occasions when she did jump him.

"It could be that the ones in black are from a successor Chapter," suggested Prima. "And I think that the White Scars wear white armour." The taller woman sat on Teleute's other side.

Teleute leant forward in her seat, causing Dorias to cringe in case Umi was looking in their direction. "I don't think that these are White Scars. They have a sort of yellow bar in their heraldry don't they? This looks more like... a boar of some kind?"

Prima squinted. "Those aren't tusks," she said and both Teleute and Dorias heard a tremble in her voice. "That's a crescent moon."

"I... don't understand," Dorias muttered.

"The Luna Wolves. The chapter formed by loyalists from the Arch-Traitor's own legion," explained the woman. "Which means that whoever they pick must be..."

Teleute swallowed. "You mean..." She lowered her voice. "Horus?"

Her answer was a nod.

{oOo}

AN: Not a true update today, but fixing a rather EPIC (yes capitals needed) miss on my part, kudos to drakensis for pointing it out!


	23. Heresy & Rebirth: Identification II

{oOo}

"Lupercal," the white-clad Commander called and all the breath left Teleute's lungs as she stared at him in denial.

She could easily imagine the thoughts running through everyone else's mind. Firstly: Thank Serenity he didn't call me. Secondly: Wait, Lupercal is Teleute.

Maybe he didn't call me.

Maybe... I misheard him...?

Please, Serenity?

She felt, rather than heard, Dorias moving carefully away from her. When she turned to look at him, there was horror in his eyes.

Looking the other way she couldn't even see Prima, although that was probably because Umi had shoved her way past the others and was now staring at her from a distance of about three inches. "Heeee~ey, does that mean you killed me?"

How in the name of the Emperor does one answer that?

Abesent any verbal response, Umi apparently filled in the blanks and grinned broadly, revealing gaps in her teeth (the Space Wolf's had been muttering about how to replace them without coming to any conclusions Teleute was aware of) and then headbutted her.

There followed Teleute Lupercal's first encounter with the Black Legion when the Mournival were required to forcibly restrain the two girls (because Teleute may have mistakenly let Umi inside her guard and get the first shot in, but she was damned if she was going to let that be the end of the matter).

{oOo}


	24. Heresy & Rebirth: Identification III

{oOo}

Uther spat in Teleute's face when she tried to say goodbye.

The reactions of the others had varied widely. Umi had hugged her and then tried to start a fight. That had been reassuringly normal. If the legends surrounding Angron had grown over time, at least they had never claimed that he was petty. The Primarch that Horus had slain held no grudge.

Dorias had hidden from her. Prima had not. Miriam had been shy (as always) but when Teleute checked her pockets on leaving the other girl's room she had found two slim books tucked inside them - one written about Horus during the Great Crusade and a second about the battle in which he had died, penitent to the end.

Uther's reaction was by far the most adversarial. His faith in the God Emperor was deep and his tolerance for a rebel, even reincarnated, was all but non-existent.

"Understand this," he hissed. "I am reborn of a loyal Primarch and you are a traitor. Do us all a favour and die alongside the other scum of the Black Legion."

Teleute wiped his spittle from her cheek. "Two days ago it hadn't even occurred to me that any of us might be traitors," she pointed out. "How do you know that you aren't one."

He glared at her. "My faith in the God-Emperor is absolute."

"The Primarch called you 'Herald' didn't he?"

Uther nodded. "The herald of Serenity's return."

She shrugged. "Before they found their Primarch, one Legion bore the name 'Imperial Heralds'."

"...which Legion," he asked, reluctantly, even his disgust yielding to the driving curiosity about which Primarch's soul was also his own."

Teleute turned away. "The Seventeenth," she told him and closed the door before he recalled which Legion bore that number.

Behind her, while Uther screamed denial - that she was lying, that he hated her - of the implication that he was father to the Word Bearers, Teleute wondered uneasily how she had known that tidbit of history.

{oOo}

AN: And here is another piece in the 'Heresy & Rebirth' universe.


	25. Heresy & Rebirth: We Can Rebuild Her

{oOo}

Teleute's body was no longer entirely familiar to her.

It was her soul that the Lunar Wolves found valuable. Her body was merely human and this was not, to them, sufficient. Leman Russ had already had biologists from the crimson-clad Adeptus Mechanicum treat her pre-emptively with anti-agathics calculated to slow her aging. To the ancient stronghold world of Cthonia, Master Cuchlain had called blue robed emissaries of the Filia Mercurium who had been studying this matter for some eons.

When Teleute came out of the vat they had placed her in, she crushed the first hand offered to raise her to her feet. She felt terrible about that of course but was even more appalled when she found that the hand had been augmetic. For the weeks it took to learn to regulate herself, only space marines of the Lunar Wolves entered her presence, and that in full battle plate.

According to mirrors she looked much as she had before the process: slim, dark of hair and pale of skin. But she could feel things moving inside her, organs akin in a distant fashion to those implanted in the Space Marines. The cost of them had been incalculable: the ancient secrets used to create the Primarchs and their legions had never been intended for women. Nor were the costs merely fiscal: Fabius Bile himself had sought the lore and thousands upon thousands of the Filia had died screaming under his torments rather than reveal the secrets to Fulgrim's Fleshcrafter. (No one told Teleute of the thousands of volunteers who'd perished in almost equal torment as experimental subjects during the lengthy development process).

Once she had learned a measure of self-control, the backbone of the Chapter and the Legion took her in hand. Sergeants of the Lunar Wolves and Black Legion, as well as three successor Chapters that could also claim Horus as progenitor, put her through a rigorous training regieme calculated to make Teleute ready to fight alongside the Space Marines with boltgun, chainsword and a myriad other weapons. Now, with any error likely to be painful, she truly mastered her new physique and into the nights officers and chaplains moulded her mind, preparing her not only for battle but for leadership in battle.

It was almost a shock when a Captain of the Black Legion summoned her to the docks where a strike cruiser was waiting. It was time for her to see war.

{oOo}

AN: More from Heresy & Rebirths Teleute.


	26. LH: Deadlier Than The Male

{oOo}

The assassin crept through the gloomy chambers of the _Extreme Prejudice_ towards his destination.

Electronic and mechanical security devices should have kept him out but they yielded to the devices and in some cases the stolen codes in his possession. Finally the door to the Primarch's bedchamber opened smoothly (what sort of idiot coded his door to open to 1-2-3-4-5?) and the blackclad man moved through it without a whisper of noise.

Angron apparently did not use a nightlight but standby lights from the room's vox shed just enough light that preysight was not required and the assassin slid goggles from his eyes as he crept towards the bed.

It was a gigantic piece of furniture, larger than even someone the size of Angron required, heavy drapes screening it from the rest of the room. Rather than pulling them aside, the assassin dropped to the floor, crawled beneath then and then slid up the side of the bed, minimising the chances of a betraying noise from the curtain.

Long fingers pulled the blowpipe out of a section of harness, already loaded with a dart that had been tipped with lethal poisons sure to kill even one as mighty as a Primarch.

Bringing the blowpipe to his lips, the assassin aimed for the centre of the bed where a shadowy mass betrayed the location of the slumbering Angron. He was just about to exhale when -

FWOOSH!

Flames roared across the bed and into his face, causing him to scream as fire engulfed both assassin and curtains. In the brief instant before his eyes melted, he saw a mass of blonde hair and peering over the woman's shoulder, the irritated face of Senshi Mars. Angron wasn't even in the bed!

After what seemed like an eternity, the flames died and firm hands dragged him out of the tangle of drapes. "How dare you try to assassinate Princess Serenity!" hissed the angry voice of Ira.

"B-but... Angron's rooms?" the agonised assassin muttered, still in shock.

"Angron always lends me his room when I visit," stated the most famous voice in the Imperium, that of the Emperor's daughter, the Anima Serenity. Then a note of steel entered her voice: "You were here to hurt _my little brother_?"

The assassin wet himself.

{oOo}

AN: Aaaand back to Bloody Mary's Lovehammer 'verse, and we learn you definitely do not want to attempt to harm Serenity's 'little brothers'.


	27. LH: Bipartisan Shotgun Wedding

{oOo}

Fond as he was of his family - well, some of them - there were some parts of his life that Angron didn't tend to share with them. It wasn't that they were particularly secret, merely the topics that didn't arise often in conversation between his brother Primarchs or that the Senshi presumed wouldn't interest him. Thus, occasional tidbits of information had a way of surprising them.

"YOU SHOULD WEAR A HEADDRESS," he advised Serenity on hearing that she would be visiting Seishin II on a state tour.

Fulgrim, Mortarion, Persephone and Ira were present and all directed bemused looks at him. Angron was not usually a font of fashion advice.

"Oh?" Serenity asked. "Ahhh! Seishin was one of your first conquests, wasn't it? Are headdresses a local custom?"

Angron nodded. "IT SHOWS YOU ARE AN UNMARRIED MAIDEN. DON'T LET IT FALL OFF."

"Oh by the Emperor," Kharn moaned. "I'd almost suppressed all memory of that."

Ira's eyes narrowed. "Of what?"

"MY FIRST MARRIAGE."

Fulgrim, having just sipped on a cup of tea proved that even a Primarch's mighty constitution was not well suited to pouring scalding liquid down his windpipe. Persephone's eyes crossed and she went very red in the face.

Mortarion looked at his hulking brother and sighed wearily. "No, don't tell me, let me guess. Removing a maiden's headdress is the local marriage ceremony. You did so by accident and Kharn persuaded you to play along so as not to cause a scene."

Angron nodded. "AMAZING. THAT'S ABSOLUTELY RIGHT. HOW DID YOU GUESS?"

"It was worse than that," Kharn muttered.

"Go on," Serenity ordered when it was clear that the equerry was sinking into melancholy silence.

He groaned. "For one thing, she was the local potentate's daughter. Both her brothers were killed in the invasion and she tried to assassinate Lord Angron at the surrender ceremony with a small calibre stubpistol. We -" he broke off, wrestled with honesty and lost "- I thought that killing her might prevent her father from surrendering and prolong the war so I suggested just restraining her."

Angron picked up Ira - who squawked indignantly - and pinned her casually under his arm. "SO I DID THAT, A BIT LIKE THIS." Ira started trying to kick him. "YES, SHE DID THAT TOO. SO I GAVE HER A SWAT -" a look from Serenity persuaded him not to do that to Ira "- AND HER HEADDRESS FELL OFF."

"You accidentally married someone who tried to assassinate you?"

Angron nodded and looked over at Kharn. "WHAT HAPPENED TO HER AFTER THAT?"

"We assigned her quarters at the other end of the battlebarge, Lord Angron. I believe she had four children by way of one of the crewmen and one of her grandchildren was recruited into the Legion."

Serenity removed her shoe, for lack of a less lethal projectile, and threw it at Angron. "That's terrible!" Then she glared at him. "And didn't you say first marriage. Implying a second?"

Kharn started to weep.

{oOo}

AN: And back to the Lovehammer verse, just what mischief can Angron get to _next_, this archivist wonders.


	28. The White Lady of War

{oOo}

If there was one species in the entire galaxy that Serenity could be said to hate it was Orks.

_The great scimitar swept through the haft of an axe and cut the foe a head shorter in an instant._

She was on record as having failed to find a single redeeming feature in the their society, culture or general psychology. Given that she was unquestionably the most accomplished diplomat in the Imperium, any hopes of engaging in any form of co-operation with Orks had been allowed to die at that point.

_Rounds of lead and crude iron sparked and disintegrated as they struck the psychic field that surrounded her._

Serenity didn't look down on Orks because their lives were nasty, brutal and short. Her deep dislike for them rested upon their nasty tendency to make human lives nasty, brutal and short just by sheer association.

_Raising one hand, she created a great light that turned night into day. Eyes watering to the point of blindness, the foe fell like wheat before a reaper._

A race that attacked humanity was awful.

A race that preyed upon humanity was terrible.

A race that willfully suborned humanity into barbarity was _unspeakable._

_A champion stepped forth, bragging of how he would defile her body once he had brought her down. She hurled the scimitar, sending it whirling through the air to cut his hand from his wrist before the weapon returned to her hand. Then she beckoned imperiously for him to step forwards to perish._

The planet Kussar's Redoubt, named for the Ork Warboss whose Waagh had seized it centuries before, was a case in point. There had been a substantial human population before the invasion and even now their numbers were smaller but perfectly viable. Unfortunately, the population was not only enslaved by the Orks but also integrated with them, existing alongside the servitor subspecies known as Gretchin. Reports suggested that the highest aspiration of any human on the planet was to be large enough and mean enough to be treated like an Ork.

_Where she fought, the men and women stood straighter, pain and fatigue flowing away from them. That was merely her presence. In brief intervals between attacks she walked through the infirmary and where she went, the wounded rose hale to fight once more._

Serenity was supposed to wait for her Father and Brother to arrive with an expeditionary fleet to carry out the invasion. But that would have taken weeks.

_Terrified but more afraid of the masters behind them than of one lone woman, slave soldiers charged at her by the hundred. She stood upon their heaped bodies, raised higher by her own height before they fled her, an indestructible goddess of war._

Military doctrine called for orbital bombardment to precede a landing. But that would have killed thousands of humans alongside the orks.

_Shamans chanted and danced, calling upon their rude deities to give witness to their courage and grant them victory. She erupted in their presence like a newborn star and sent them squealing from her presence as she cast down their idols._

Instead she had identified a defensive position within a day's march of the largest Ork settlement on the planet, brazenly landed there with her guards and defied the Orks to remove her. Predictably, the result had been a swarm of Orks (and Gretchin and humans) towards the position, intent on 'Avin A Go, as their language put it.

_A night attack. Standing shoulder to shoulder with towering giants and grim amazons. Less skill than butchery, the attackers gunned down in the dozens, night no shield against augmented vision, whether mechanical or inborn._

The Orks were armed with crude stubguns and axes for the most part. Serenity's Custodes and Seraphim wore power armour and advanced boltguns. The latter ran out of ammunition days before Orks ran out of bodies.

_The ramparts that had been built now were buried in the dead. Survivors dug out their friends, heaping the enemy dead in new fortifications. Even the soles of her boots were unstained, but every glance at the fallen stabbed at her soul._

The gold armour of the Custodes and the silver armour of the Seraphim were stained black with blood. Only Serenity remained pristine. Untouched.

_Six hulking foes surrounded her. Three cuts that would have made her arms-teachers curse and her brother laugh brought down half of them and then she plunged her blade into the ground before raising her voice in a crescendo that sent the others reeling in agony._

For every human life lost as they threw themselves against the barricades, heedless of risk in their obsession to fight along their greenskin brethren, she shed a single sparkling tear.

_Her sword hurtled down only to pause an inch from the flesh of a half-naked boy half her age who was rushing her with no more than a dagger. Before he could realize he had been spared, Serenity reversed her blade and struck a stunning blow to his temple with the flat._

For the Orks she cried not at all.

{oOo}

AN: Possible backing music for this piece is _Sono Namida mo Kanashimi mo ~ Tsudoe, Hoshi no Kagayaki,_ from the Nanoha StrikerS OST, available on Youtube.


	29. Tenacity in the Face of Good Taste

{oOo}

There was a tradition for when the Imperial family gathered in any great numbers. It had started with just the Emperor, Serenity and Horus and after centuries it had become an institution that simply could not be avoided (despite efforts by certain Primarchs and Senshi after Angron was recovered and they were exposed to his 'singing'): Music Night.

And so, on this particular evening, with more than half of the Primarchs gathered with their sister and several of her bodyguard at the Emperor's field headquarters, Serenity sang. Horus played the piano. Sanguinius demonstrated heartbreaking skill on the flute. Fulgrim produced a violin to accompany a duet by two of the Senshi. Even Mortarion had grudgingly produced the double bass and scratched out a tune in a competent fashion.

The Emperor dipped his hand inside a bowl filled with tokens and drew the next person's turn. (By longstanding custom it was random order). "Angron," he announced, frowning slightly in disappointment.

Dozens of flinches were concealed with varying degrees of effectiveness. Dorn nudged Corax (who was lurking between the Primarchs of the Ultramarines and Imperial Fists). "Why don't you look bothered?"

"I won a bet with Angron last week," Corax replied coolly. "His forfeit is not to sing for the next month."

Dorn's expression relaxed. "I may hug you."

"Don't let your cousin rub off on you."

Guilleman leant forwards. "I believe this would be a suitable moment to..." He hesitated and held up his fist. "'Fistbump'?"

The other two Primarchs stared at him. "CoughNerdCough," Corax observed.

Guilleman apparently missed the insult. "That would be a no?"

The conversation halted as Angron stepped up to the stage carrying something that sent alarm through the family.

"Is that...?"

"Oh no." The Raven Guard Primarch shrank into his chair.

"Corax, I'm going to kill you."

"BECAUSE OF CERTAIN CIRCUMSTANCES, I CANNOT SING TONIGHT!" Angron announced. "FORTUNATELY I HAVE BEEN LEARNING TO PLAY THE BAGPIPES."

{oOo}


	30. Heresy & Rebirth: Storming Troy

{oOo}

The battlefield was a strange one.

Thousands of years before the Imperium men had come to the system of Troy. Using vast mirrors they had harnessed the light of a sun and applied it to the nickel-iron asteroids that might at one time have been parts of long dead planets. Applied correctly, the result was bubbles of stone, and a wealth of minerals.

_Most_ of the asteroids was nickel and iron, both of which were somewhat valuable in the quantities available. Some was other metals far more useful. The Emperor alone could guess how much of the Dark Age of Technology had been built with the metals from Troy.

All of that had been long ago. The mirrors were long gone and the miners who remained could not say what had happened. Conquered by the Great Crusade, they had paid their tithe in minerals scratched from the inside of their hollow homes and otherwise dabbled in piracy when they thought they could get away with it.

That was not the reason that the Black Legion had been sent there.

The reason was that the miners had stopped pirating, which had made the Administratium happy, and started hurling their homes off into the darkness of interstellar space upon fusion torches. Since those giant globes then ceased to send tithes to the Imperium, or to hand their pskyers to the Black Ships, neither the Administratium not the Inquisition was happy with this idea.

Storming aboard the remaining globes was the sort of job that required Space Marines, at least to force beachhead. And since it was the sort of head-on assault that would kill even Space Marines, the first wave of the attack would be carried out by the Black Legion and the second by World Eaters who would have the unspoken orders to use their bolters of the Black Legion balked.

Not that they would, of course. They were under the eyes of their reborn Primarch and more importantly, the Black Legion never had. But some wounds are just too deep.

Teleute would fight with the rear rank of the Black Legion. This was not the usual position for an inexperienced member of the Legion - usually their deployments were well forward so that those who had joined only in search of a place to die would find it quickly, those who desired to continue their service would have opportunity to show their worth and those undecided between the two extremes would be forced to choose.

It had been made clear to Telute that while she was fighting alongside the Black Legion, she was doing so as commander of the XVI Legion and thus her life was not to be given away. Her warplate was therefore the bone-white with black trim of the original Luna Wolves and although outwardly it resembled Mk 8 Power Armour she had learned that the artifice of its construction rendered it almost as durable as the mighty tactical dreadnought armour used by veteran Astartes. And then there was the Iron Halo.

The protection afforded by the suit was remarkable, but given that between her and the enemy were not only the first rank of the Black Legion but also the second rank, made up of hoary veterans that formed the backbone of the Legion, it seemed almost superfluous.

It was a surprise therefore that no sooner had she exited her boarding torpedo than she was shot at.

The stubber slugs exploded in fiery death as they struck the protective field of the Iron Halo and Teleute automatically raised her bolt pistol, dispatching the gunner as her bodyguards eradicated the infiltrator squad that had somehow eluded the first attack groups.

One look at the tactical displays demonstrated to Teleute the validity of the first principle that she'd learned from studying Miriam's gifts: in war, the plan was the first casualty. The outer shells of the globes were over a hundred kloms thick and penetrated only by a maze of interlinking passages and mineshafts. Maps provided for the operation bore little to no relationship with reality.

"Move forward," she ordered tersely, ignoring the shattered remains of the men she'd killed, now almost obscured by the flood of information across her eye-displays. "We will have to penetrate to the core. We can't expect to kill a snake by gnawing on its tail."

{oOo}

AN: And here is more of the "Heresy & Rebirth" universe~


	31. Heresy & Rebirth: Sisters at Arms

{oOo}

It took almost a week to fight through the outer layer of the globe and that was good progress. Three of the other four assaults had managed to create bridgeheads for Imperial Guard regiments to take over, which had just lead to bogging down of the Guardsmen with brutal losses despite support from World Eaters. The fifth attack had failed outright, the Black Legion laying down their lives to cover the retreat of the support elements.

Teleute had consolidated the Black Legion into this attack and was using the Guardsmen to secure their rear areas. It hadn't stopped casualties but it at least kept them to a manageable level and as a result the Imperial forces now controlled a secure route from an improvised dock to a minehead two hundred kloms away on the inside. Now all they had to do was work out where on the four and a half million square kloms of the inner surface the rebel leaders could be found.

No one had questioned Teleute leading the assault out of the mineshafts although she had appeased any desire to recommend caution by letting the company's two dreadnoughts and squad of terminators take point. There had been seven casualties among that echelon, which had been almost half their losses in the operation. Approximately two thousand rebel soldiers had been killed – the tenuous atmosphere inside the globe was entirely the result of millenia of pollution so the breach of a space suit would have been fatal even if the pressure hadn't been barely greater than that of space outside the globe.

Inside one of the resealed domes that housed the minehead, Teleute was being assisted in repairs to her armour by two techmarines – the assistance being their doing the work while she watched, learned and occasionally held tools for them. Being out of her armour felt strange after six days and she had already made a mental note to bring a bodyglove or robe for this contingency in the future.

She was examining her helmet when Hundred Leader Belisarius entered the chamber. "What do you make of this?" she asked, holding it so he could see the small 'M' that the techmarines had engraved above the brow without asking her. "I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"Was it your idea?" the towering Astartes asked bluntly. Teleute had grown accustomed to being surrounded by near-giants at all times but had to admit to herself that she had been almost embarassingly glad to learn that the XVI Legion had female serfs so that she at least had other women to talk to at times.

"Oh this is their fault." She pointed at the two unrepentant Techmarines.

Belisarius nodded in understanding. "Then it is a good thing, Thousand Leader Teleute." And he saluted. The Black Legion did _not_ salute their officers.

"Stop that, it's a sniper check," she told him automatically.

"My apologies, Thousand Leader." He didn't sound particularly abashed. "You have guests."

The next person through the hatch was a World Eater officer. Such was the shrouding effect of the battle plate that it wasn't until the white helmet came off that Teleute recognised Umi. The other young woman – young, they must each be past forty now! - had her hair in tight braids flat against her skull and secured at the nape of her neck. "He~ey!" She hugged Teleute which was a nervous moment since she had lightning claws (inactive thankfully) jutting from one of her gauntlets. Enhancements or not, those claws could have torn the unarmoured woman apart with ease. "Help me?"

"Certainly," Teleute agreed quickly. "Ah... what with?"

"My marines!" Umi leant closer and half-whispered into her ear: "So stupid."

Umi was calling someone stupid? Umi? Teleute winced. "Why don't you tell me a little more about this." She relaxed slightly only to tense up as she saw the helmet of the next World Eater to enter was battered as if by some hardened club. One that apparently had an aquila stamped on it just like the reinforced butt of the bolt pistol that sat at Umi's hip.

She could practically feel the glare she received from the World Eater, whose black armour proclaimed him to be a Chaplain.

{oOo}


	32. LH: A Necessary Anger

{oOo}

The thunder of World Eater feet across the decks of the alien vessel reminded Artai of the cavalry of Chogoris. But where his father's tuman, whether riders of the steppes or the Legion who wore the same alabaster armour and ceremonial scars that he did, would have circled their foes relentlessly, slicing off the weak and herding their foes like cattles, that was not the habit of the World Eaters.

Instead the Astartes in white and blue armour lunged directly at the heart of the defenders, intent upon smashing them and shattering their resistance. Artai had seen this before - seen the price it extracted in the form of scarred ceramite and torn flesh, but also the broken foes fleeing before the brutal certainty of a World Eater charge.

Here, as it had on all sorts of battlefields, it worked. At the centre of the vessel, behind layer after layer of armour intended to ward off the elemental fury of warship batteries, the command centre of the xenos vessel had no protection from the wrath of Angron's sons.

On other occasions Artai had stood back and watched, or held himself upon the flank, picking off stray warriors who sought to outflank the sudden advance. But now he found himself carried along with them, the long sleek chainsword he carried gripped in both hands for additional power as he hacked at the pirates in front of him as ferociously as the Astartes flanking him. At fourteen, he was tall for his age and had long since found himself towering over even grown men, saving for his father and uncles of course. Thus, Artai was scarcely smaller than the Astartes around him and the whining teeth of his blade cut as furiously as their heavy chain axes.

He didn't see the faces in front of him. The Eldar whose precise swordsmanship was no defense against overwhelming strength had a pale, amost cadaverous face to his eyes.

When Artai broke the nose of a human traitor with the guard of his sword, the gaudy carapace armour might have been midnight blue power armour for all he could tell.

And for a long moment as he broke into the command deck, the banner across the back seemed to mock him by resembling a winged skull. The sight froze him for a single, near-fatal instant as the huddle of pirate leaders opened up at him from behind the cover of their consoles. Stubber and laser fire scarred but did not breach his armour but scattershot from a crude cannon managed to catch the face of his helm and Artai staggered, one eyepiece broken and the armour-glass in his face.

Then a powerful hand shoved him forwards and to one side, opening the way for Kharn to lead the charge onwards, bolt pistol roaring as he picked off shooters and a power axe singing in his other hand in readiness for bloodshed ahead.

Artai drove his chainsword into the nearest chair, the teeth biting through padding and frame before he cut the power and started to wrestle off his helm. Free to smell the stench of blood and battle, not only from the compartment but also the rainbow of gore from dozens of disparate alien foe that painted his armour, he bent over and retched before starting to reach for his face.

"WAIT FOR AN APOTHECARY," ordered Angron bluntly. "LOSE AN EYE IF YOU FIDDLE BLINDLY WITH THAT. PROMISED YOUR FATHER TO KEEP YOU INTACT FOR A FUNERAL EVEN IF I COULDN'T KEEP YOU ALIVE."

He swallowed and then looked up at his uncle. "You're not...?" It was most unlike the Primarch not to be in the thick of the fighting, still going on.

Angron looked down at him and then shrugged. "YOU ARE BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND OUR ANGER, SON OF KHAN. NOW YOU MUST MASTER YOUR OWN."

"My... own...?"

His response was a sharp nod but his uncle surprised him by doffing his own battlehelm. "REVENGE FOR CHOGORIS IS _NECESSARY_. I DO NOT DO _ONLY_ THAT WHICH IS NECESSARY." His lips parted in a savage smile and to his surprise, for the first time since the news of Chogoris and of Aunt Esin, Artai returned it.

{oOo}


	33. LH: Greetings with Implied Farewell

{oOo}

Jaghatai Khan was waiting in in the landing bay as the white Thunderhawk with blue trim entered the compartment. Through boots that were magnetically locked to the deck he felt the hammerblow of the assault craft's landing. Stormbirds had become increasingly uncommon sights among the Legions but Grand Companies could usually find one or two if necessary. Transporting a Primarch was usually considered good grounds but he doubted Angron cared - actually, he suspected his brother had simply boarded the nearest craft to landing bay hatch on the Strike Cruiser that had brought him to this rendevous and wouldn't have cared if it was Stormbird or a boarding torpedo.

The assault ramp lowered and Angron walked out, followed by a dozen World Eaters with the markings of Captains. The Khan did not see Kharn - no doubt commanding the Legion in his lord's absence - but he recognised the markings of 11th Company, still commanded by Dreagher. But Jaghatai was not looking for old comrades: to his disappointment none of those white suits of armour bore the lightning bolt of the White Scars.

It had been ten years. Had Artai not been able to drag himself away from the battlefield? Or... He shook aside the dark thought. Angron was brutal, certainly, but not cruel. He would not keep further tragedy from a father out of thoughtless desire to guard him from grief. More probably, Artai would simply be aboard a later transport.

"Well met, brother," he voxed, raising his voice to be heard over the air rushing into the bay.

Angron took one gauntleted hand away from the hilt of his sword in greeting. "I'M MISSING A WAR FOR THIS. WHAT'S WRONG NOW?"

The Primarch spread his hands. "Roboute convinced Father to call a conference. The full Terran Council, the old War Council and a lot of the younger ones. Then She-Who-Must-Be-Heeded decided there should be a ball..."

"...WHAT SORT OF BALL?" Angron asked, gesturing with his hands to suggest dimensions of something small and spherical.

"A party, Angron."

"IN A BALL?"

Jaghatai was distracted from clarifying for his brother, who he suspected was playing dumb for the sake of his nascent sense of humour rather than genuinely ignorant (then again, Angron did get hit on the head a lot) when one of the World Eater Captains stepped forward and held out both hands. The Khan had placed his own arms over them, each with hands against the other's elbows, in the traditional Chogoris greeting before he thought to wonder why a World Eater would make such a gesture.

"Are you well," he asked in his native tongue, suspicion beginning to cross his mind.

The Captain nodded sharply. "I am well. Father."

And Captain Artai of the 19th Company, World Eaters Legion then endured the indignity of being picked up and hugged in front of his peers.

{oOo}


	34. LH: New Family

{oOo}

Roboute saw the Emperor's gaze flicker to the Arcanium as they passed it. The gesture was almost imperceptible, the meaning almost inpenetrable.

Almost.

The capital of Ultramar was not one of the ancient cities of Macragge. Rather than favour the city that had tried to overthrow his fa... Konor, Roboute had reluctantly allowed the administration to settle around a small estate that he had been granted as a child. Now acres of perfectly proportioned towers and domes surrounded the old manor, much of which had been demolished to make way for his new and palatial residence.

Probably there would be another spate of rebuilding to accomodate the leadership of Roboute's new Legion, although he hoped to place their functional headquarters somewhere more secluded. The architects would probably suggest again that the ancient stone building with its handcrafted iron fittings be replaced with something more fitting to the architectural style of the city that had grown up around it.

Obviously his new Emperor agreed with them. Not unreasonable, Roboute had to admit. Keeping his boyhood retreat intact was one of the few acts of sentiment that he allowed himself.

Sentiment did not seem to be the Emperor's forte.

He was not the only one to follow his _new_ father's gaze. Clearly his sister - and that was a considerable surprise - was also well versed in the Emperor's body language for she looked directly over at the Arcanium and then smiled warmly. "Oh that's perfect!"

Roboute and the Emperor looked at her with identical questioning expressions.

"It's a beautiful city, Roboute," she assured him. "But that's the first part I've seen that fits your personality." Then Serenity blushed slightly. "It is yours, isn't it?"

"Yes." Roboute hesitated fractionally. "My father gave it to me."

The Emperor gave him a measuring look and then nodded. "Serenity's better at this than I am," he admitted blandly, "But it's clear Konor was a fine man and a good father."

The Consul of Macragge was still processing this tenative gesture of acceptance of his mixed feelings when Serenity seized his arm. "Can we see more of your home, Roboute?"

{oOo}


	35. LH: Disrespect and Domesticity

{oOo}

The Dux Primus of the Eragrate Stars had offered to accept the fealty of the Emperor if he bowed his knee and sent a daughter to join the Dux' hareem.

It took Perturabo's Iron Warriors seventeen hours to seize control of the Eragrate Warfleet, tear open the orbital defenses, suppress the fortresses around the palatial Forbidden City in which the Dux Primus resided and land troops. That was less time than it had taken to convince Night Haunter, Angron and Horus that Perturabo would deal with the matter. (Four days and sixteen hours, for those curious.)

Raising one massive hand towards great double doors of the palace's grand hall, Perturabo held himself completely still as the conversion beamer built into his gauntlet went to work. One second, two seconds... The doors disintegrated in a spectacular fashion and a cold smirk crossed his lips. Tekhne had been very thoughtful to provide him with this little upgrade for his birthday. He'd have to think of something special for hers.

Waving aside his Iron Warriors, the Primarch strode menacingly through the debris.

The Dux Primus' bodyguards were good, dedicated soldiers. Perturabo methodically blew them apart with single shots from his bolt pistol. Clean deaths. A mercy, under the circumstances. The last of their bodies was on the floor before he was halfway along the hall and women scattered in front of the grim war-god as he marched to the foot of the dais. Some of them were presumably members of the harem, others servants or daughters of the nobility. Assuming there was a difference.

Without pause, Perturabo ascended the dais and lifted the throne, Dux Primus and all, over his head. The screaming potentate clung to his seat until the Primarch shook it vigourously, spilling the former master of a dozen worlds onto the marble stairs. Then he returned the throne to its former place and sat upon it.

Gold limned and cushioned in crimson velvet, the throne was built on a scale to dwarf the corpulent Dux Primus. It creaked alarmingly under Perturabo's armoured form, which almost obscured the throne.

"Wh-who are you!" the Dux screamed, practically in tears. "Are you that upstart Emperor?"

There was no reply.

The Dux sweated. "I was merely joking about your daughter. I meant to offer one of my princely sons as her husband in token of our alliance."

The silence grew deadly. Perturabo's eyebrow twitched and then he raised his gauntlet aiming it directly at the grovelling Dux who screamed and threw himself flat in submission. The more prudent women cleared themselves away as the gauntlet began to hum.

"You are talking about my sister."

The Dux - who could have easily dodged the slow-firing conversion beam if he'd thought to - exploded, completely ruining the rug he had been sprawled upon.

Perturabo looked around the room and then pointed with his other hand at a woman who showed the telltale signs of having been treated with anti-agathics. "You, come here."

Possessed of at least some survival instincts the woman walked to stand before the throne and then knelt in the gorey splatter that had once been her husband. "How may I serve the Son of the Emperor?"

"My wife's birthday is in three weeks," he declared flatly. "What might she appreciate, do you think."

{oOo}


	36. LH: Not Seeing Far Enough

{oOo}

Space around Alaitoc burned as Imperial warships hurtled towards the craftworld. In comparison to the elegant eldar frigates with their wraithbone hulls and solar sails, the grand cruisers and battleships were ugly and crude, but there were a lot of them.

Inside the layered defenses of the fleet, dozens of transports carried regiment after regiment of the Imperial Army, but the spearhead of the transport fleet was a battlebarge and four strike cruisers, all in the white and blue of one of the most infamous of Astartes legions.

The seers of Alaitoc had been alerted many cycles previously of this attack. Not, unfortunately, early enough to prevent the campaign of piracy by a band of outcast Alaitoci rangers from provoking the attack. And not in time to avert the wrath of the Imperium by assassinating a few key members of the local chain of command and leaving the mon-keigh in disarray until the whole matter had blown over.

(If quizzed, most of the Eldar on Alaitoc would have catagorised the Imperial attack as a gross over-reaction. Certainly thousands of mon-keigh had died and billions more suffered as a result of the economic damage, but what of the dozens of Eldar who had died carrying out the attacks? Who would answer for their deaths and the furthering of the Eldar race's slow slide towards extinction?)

Beset by visions of soldiers over-running the halls and domes of Alaitoc, of mon-keigh tanks crushing the gates to the Dome of Crystal Seers beneath their tracks, of hundreds Eldar children being marched off by grim Astartes for re-education on those Exodite worlds that had chose to subordinate themselves to the short-sighted Emperor and his lunatic Daughter, the seers had devoted many cycles to measuring the tactics and strategies to be employed against them and on their advice counter-plans had been laid by the autarchs.

Every possible reserve would be called in. Small bands - all that could be spared - of warriors from the aspect shrines of other Craftworlds had arrived through the webway, as had warbands from the similar Exodite worlds as favours eons old were called in. Pledges and bargains had been made, calling in aid and farseers had not hesitated to subtly influence even outcasts and the accursed fiends of Commarrgh to assist them in their time of need. Without them, Alaitoc was doomed.

And as the warfleet closed towards Alaitoc one of those groups was being positioned neatly to take advantage of the mon-keigh predictability. Reaching out through the skein, one junior seer reached out to the leader of the pirates who'd caused this mess in the first place. It had taken the firm persuasion of a Harlequin to convince the renegade to make the dangerous attack but no one more expendable was going to take the job. "Now."

In an instant the webway portal opened and a dozen raiding vessel plunged out, deep inside the Imperial formations, the frigates already firing lasers and distortion cannon into the vulnerable transports. The pass had been carefully calculated: the pirates had only a few precious moments to wreak havoc before returning to the webway, the honour debt paid.

Unfortunately those moments had been planned on the basis of unarmed transports. Not on vessels that were busily ejecting panels over weapon systems and spitting out boarding torpedoes in a black and white livery similar too - but lethally different from - that of the World Eaters.

The seer screamed a warning - Comes The Raven! - but it was far, far too late. At point blank range all but one pirate vessel found itself with boarders breaking through the wraithbone to enter their interiors. The one exception found itself targeted by a tremendous barrage from the armed merchant vessels and disintegrated long before it could reach an escape vector.

Aboard the other vessels, Eldar pirates rallied in the defense of the ships that were also their homes, but they were facing experts in the same hit and run operations that they themselves favoured - experts with all the advantages of Astartes.

There could only be one outcome and ship after ship fell out of controlled flight with no Eldar left aboard free to handle them, and quite unable to be piloted by 'mere Mon-keigh'. That didn't bother the Raven Guard: they didn't want the ships. Just the crews. With the imperial ships moving into a defensive formation, the Astartes reboarded their torpedoes and began to return to their motherships. Each abandoned vessel was pounded to ruins before the Imperial fleet reversed course away from Alaitoc.

"What... what is happening?" one Farseer mumbled, predictions all askew.

"We have what we came for." The seers turned and saw a tall, robed figure emerge from the shadows of their chamber. Her hood fell back, revealing long jade green hair.

The alien word came to a dozen lips: Senshi.

She bowed her head, key-like sceptre in one hand. "Alta, of Caliban," she acknowledged. "Your predictions were correct. Without the pirate, Alaitoc was doomed. By playing bait for them, you have served our needs."

"You used us?"

"Indeed. Take this message." Her face was stern. "Clean your messes before they draw our attention and we will endeavour to do likewise. Fail to do so and an attack like this will not stop with the immediately guilty, but also the system that enables them."

In moments the woman vanished in the distinctive flash of a mon-keigh teleporter, leaving the Council of Seers to digest that they - the arch-manipulators - had expended favours and resources at the manipulation of another, younger race.

{oOo}


	37. LH: Crowd Pleaser

{oOo}

It took more than an hour for Jaghatai to find his brother.

He was honestly surprised when his first plan (stand still and listen for Angron's voice) failed. He'd heard quieter thunderstorms than the 'Angry One's' idea of polite conversation.

Checking the nearest pastures, where the younger warriors liked to gather to spar, ride horses dangerously and brag of how many heads they would take when they rode the stars with their uncles, great-uncles and (of course) the Great Khan, was also fruitless.

Finally he resorted to the ancient and secret tricks for finding a man in the camp: asking one of the women. They pointed him in the right direction and he eventually found a circle of children, many of them on mother's laps, watching as Angron and Esin danced with swords.

Perched easily on the fence by the audience, Amphithoe was almost unrecognisable in breeches and a brightly coloured jacket, only her flowing hair giving away her identity as she fiddled, her violin sending notes up high and rich to guide the pace of the two dancers.

Esin, Jaghatai knew of old was quicksilver flair with her sabre slashing through the air just as its mistress slashed through the dance. In sharp contrast, Angron _roared_ through the dance - not verbally, but the wind bellowing around him as - wearing a baggy shirt and a pair of Jaghatai's own riding breeches, he pounded through the steps. To the Khan's knowledge the two had never crossed swords before but each placed their weapons in paths that would have cut the other seriously (even Angron's resilience might not withstand that silver sabre) had not the other without fail had their sword where it was needed to block it.

For this was no duel, it was a dance - symbolic of combat but filled with whirls and flourishes that told the tale behind the battle being played out. As Jaghatai watched, he knew without words that this was battle-between-oathbrothers where the winner would carry his brother's fate with him to the heavens and the loser must bear his brother's burden with his own across the plains.

And then, with another glorious crescendo of notes from Amphithoe it concluded: Angron on his knees, head flung back until the crown of his head almost touched the ground, Esin standing with one foot braced upon the much larger Primarch, her blade thrust apparently through her foes heart while his spun above them, caught in the moment. Jaghatai, like all the audience, caught up in the performance, felt as if he could not take a breath.

Then Angron _flexed_ and they sprang into the air, like a pair of jack-in-the-boxes, landing on their feet with a flourish of now scabbarded swords (Angron catching his in its sheath while in mid-air was just showing off) and bows to their delighted audience.

"I didn't know you were such an entertainer," Jaghatai teased his brother later.

Angron glared at him. "YOU DON'T GET TO BE THE GREATEST GLADIATOR ON A PLANET WITHOUT KNOWING HOW TO PLEASE A CROWD," he pointed out and wouldn't talk to anyone for the rest of the day. (Esin kicked Jaghatai and he sort of suspected that Amphithoe wanted to.)

{oOo}


	38. LH: The Liesmith

{oOo}

"You are insane," Roboute Guilleman said seriously.

It was a remarkable understatement of the Primarch of XIII Legion to make. But it was a remarkable moment.

"I am going to kill you," he added. The tone of his voice was perfectly conversational. The way that his gauntleted hands were moving was the only clue that he wasn't entirely calm. No one on the bridge had ever seen him show even that much agitation however, and more than one officer found that the movement focused their attention far more than the ill-defined readings coming from their still overloaded auspex systems.

The man displayed in the bridge hololith was no less unfamiliar with this as a mannerism of his brother. But where the officers of Roboute Guilleman's staff found it unnerving, he found it _delightful_.

"You sound distraught, dear Roboute," he declared in mocking tones of amazement. "Calm yourself, lest your father think less of his perfect son."

"He is also your father." Outside, the consequences of the death-ride of the cruise Campanile continued to spread through the orbtials with cataclysmic force and mind-numbing speed. Hundreds of ships had been wrecked by debris or by the eager guns of Lorgar's Word Bearers. Soldiers by the million had been blotted away before they even knew that they were under attack. Many of the superhuman Astartes who called Roboute Guilleman father had fared no better.

Beneath them all, Calth _burned_.

Lorgar Aurelian laughed like the madman that Guilleman named him.

"I have more worthy fathers now, Guilleman. More worthy than the one who you helped leave orphaned on the desecrated soil of Monarchia."

The consequences of the sudden dive of the Campanile into Calth's orbitals would take the supernatural genius of a Primarch to understand and perhaps only the genius of Guilleman and his renowned ability to make sense of thousands of apparently unrelated details could conceivably re-impose order and sanity upon a universe that had suddenly been upended.

"You bastard," Guilleman breathed. "You've been holding that as a grudge? This is some twisted revenge?"

He was, however, rather distracted.

His brother shook his head pityingly. "Oh no, Roboute. Not a grudge. I forgive you that trespass readily and without hesitation." His smile was that of a serpent. "You placed me on the true path, so please consider this to be my heartfelt thanks to you."

"You cannot possibly imagine that anyone will shield you from the consequences." Guilleman's voice did not shake in the slightest. Only the keenest of observers could have seen the fractional dilation of his pupils. "Traitoris Excommunicatus. Russ and his Wolves will hunt your sons to the end of the universe if they have to."

"Oh Roboute, are you losing your cool? Please don't diminish yourself in the such a manner." Lorgar's lips parted slightly to reveal his gleaming canines. "This tactic, this _treachery_ as I have named it, is tearing the heart from your Legion. Please don't attempt to diminish my glory by suggesting that you are opposing it with anything but your best attention." Then he waved one gauntleted hand dismissively. "As for Russ... please don't concern yourself with him. Our trap has already closed around him, remember to ask him about it in whatever hell you might find yourselves sharing."

Guilleman's voice cracked with a stark warning: "No one legion, not even the largest, can stand alone against the Imperium."

"Has even your hearing deserted you." Lorgar's image stepped forwards, impossibly exiting the hololith to stalk the deck towards his brother. "I said _our_ trap, Roboute. _I do not stand alone_."

There was nothing wrong with the reflexes of those around the bridge and despite their astonishment that Lorgar somehow walked amongst them, a dozen bolt pistols were aimed for him instantly. Only a concern for ricochet damage to the many delicate systems around them caused Roboute Guilleman to gesture for calm. That and of course that the mass-reactive shells would hardly be sufficient to harm his fallen brother even if he were truely present and not a mere phantasm.

"How arrogant you are, out here in your lonely kingdom," Lorgar mused. "The wise, noble Roboute Guilleman... the universe has _changed_ and all will be made anew... yet you know nothing. The heavens are _ablaze_ but Ultramar stands pristine and _ignorant_ of the truth."

"Who?" That simple question fell into the silence that had followed Lorgar's words. The words of Guilleman of course. Even the stout heart of an Ultramarine might quail before the silver tongue of the Primarch of the XVII Legion, but their Primarch was made, quite literally, of sterner stuff.

Lorgar chuckled. "Magnus, of course, to lure the Wolf from his den. The Lion, to enter that den. I am sure that Russ will enjoy the warm welcome offered by his cold, cold world when he seeks to lick his wounds."

Instant dismissal: "That is nonsense."

"Is it? You think you know the hearts of men, Roboute? Consider the Lion, examine his pride and his ambition. Think of Dulan and how the two fought then. Imagine also that when that abusive parent you still revere has been ground into the dust, there will be room for a new Warmaster and el'Jonson has been promised it. The Gates of Fenris lie open for him..."

Guileman laughed himself, with certainty. "While the Storm Caller holds them? Thora is a fine host but far too shrewd for such a ploy."

"Thora is one of us." Lorgar's eyes gleamed. "She has always known that she was in communion with something greater than herself and her tale of how Russ wooed her speaks more of his brutality than his charm. She will gladly rid herself of him."

"Impossible." The words were confident. Convincing. False. For the seed of doubt had touched Guilleman's mind. The Emperor had placed strict limits upon exploration of psychic abilites, and there was no doubt that Thora was as potently gifted in her own way as even Magnus himself.

"So claimed Ferrus Manus," revealed Lorgar. "At first, at least. His tongue was stilled admirably by Fulgrim's sword and his skull is now a trophy. Alas, less evidence remains of Vulkan and Corax. The tools of exterminating worlds can be quite... indiscriminant."

He smiled slightly. "You are imagining yourself rushing back to Terra, at the head of an avenging army, are you not, Roboute? You may as well abandon such fantasies: I would not speak of such matters if you could avert them. We are, after all, so very far away and my allies are already crowding the star roads on their way to Terra."

"Dorn holds Terra. He will be an unbreakable anvil for your ambitions," promised Guilleman. The faintest touch of sweat was upon his brow. "Horus will be the hammer that crushes you against him."

"Oh?" The was a terrible mischief in Lorgar's eyes. "Imagine the great glories of Terra, my naive brother. Imagine the Iron Warriors laying siege to the Imperial Palace, for more than half of them have scorned their foolish Primarch and his whore to march under our banner. Imagine Angron's Legion alongside them, summoned for the greatest battle of history." He shrugged. "Take heart if you will, that Mortarion remains loyal if somewhat bereaved of his pet. How sad. Persephone had such potential, she could have taken Serenity's place and ruled as our Dark Queen but she lacked the vision to -"

Words were ended in the staccato boom of mass-reactive bolt shells tearing through the seeming of Lorgar as Guilleman raised his fists and the stormbolters built into each mighty gauntlet expressed their own counter-argument.

Explosions tore through the crew stations behind the apparition, and then into the calculating engines behind them. None plucked at the armour of the Ultramarines at those posts although each quickly threw themselves away from their posts to clear room for their primarch to work. Lorgar threw back his head and laughed, but there seemed to have been something material to his presence for not every shell passed through unhindered. A piece at a time, the surface was peeled away, revealing behind it something very different from Lorgar Aurelian, Primarch of the Word Bearers.

Then he lowered what ought to be his face, marked still by some miracle, with his eyes and met Guilleman's angry glare. "Once you have made me what I ought to be."

The explosion that gutted the bridge of the Fist of Macragge was lost entirely in the apocalyptic devestation that surrounded the battlebarge. Dozens of the senior staff of the Legion were killed and fires raged through the violated compartments of the command tower.

Flung out into the void, having been stood between Lorgar's... presence... and a sizeable viewport, Guilleman ignored completely the lack of atmosphere, instead twisting himself and firing one further shot to stablise his tumble. If the vaccum of space had not taken his breath away, no doubt the carnage - spread across literally billions of cubic miles but plainly visible to his eyes - would have done so.

A hand touched the elbow of his armour gently and that slight touch drew his attention away from the devestation around him.

Alta stood beside him, the chill of space and the merciless lack of air apparently of no more concern to her than it was to him. Her expression was no warmer than the frozen hell that they were in and for an instant Guilleman wondered if Lorgar's litany of traitors would have included her name had it not been cut off.

Then the shadows over her encarmine eyes were driven away briefly by the light cast by the death of the troop carrier Victory of Ullanor. The pain that Guilleman saw in those eyes made it clear that not every word borne by Lorgar could be false, yet that she at least knew the same agony that tore at his heart now.

There were no words, nor air to convey them had they been voiced. Yet there was one thing that he _could_ offer her.

For a moment, adrift in the burning skies above Calth, two loyal warriors shared a comradely embrace.

{oOo}


	39. Rites: Struggling With Grief

{oOo}

Angron studied the section of wood. Right, so he was supposed to carve it into a momento for Chogoris - a planet he had never visited - to give Jaghatai in a gesture of support.

He didn't really feel particularly inspired, but Serenity had asked nicely.

After dulling his sword chipping away at the wood (and breaking three attempts when he chipped a little too hard) he went to Kharn and asked if it might not be easier to just sent Jaghatai a few hundred Traitor's heads and a few horses. He thought there was a planet in the nearest sector with fire-breathing horses, surely that would be more pleasing to his brother than some broken wood?

{oOo}


	40. The Sons of Angron

{oOo}

The Sons of the Lion are the heroes who ride out to slay monsters.  
The Sons of Angron know that they are the monsters to their foes.

The Sons of Fulgrim embrace the ideal of perfection in warfare.  
The Sons of Angron believe that war is no ideal.

The Sons of Perturabo built fortresses that they can hold for all eternity.  
The Sons of Angron build staging areas from which to attack.

The Sons of Jaghatai tear at the flanks of their foes.  
The Sons of Angron strike for the heart.

The Sons of Russ stand watch over their own cousins.  
The Sons of Angron eye the Wolf-King's brood and wait the day.

The Sons of Dorn can never be broken.  
The Sons of Angron can never be stopped.

The Sons of Curze inspire fear of what hides in the darkness.  
The Sons of Angron inspire fear in whoever they stand before.

The Sons of Sanguinius fight for the glorious vision of their father.  
The Sons of Angron struggle to restrain the murderous rage of their sire.

The Sons of Ferrus Manus seek to expel weakness from theselves.  
The Sons of Angron desire to be strong where they have been broken.

The Sons of Guilleman seek victory through the mastery of the battlefield.  
The Sons of Angron obtain victory through death of those who stand against them.

The Sons of Mortarion are methodical and deliberate in their strategies.  
The Sons of Angron wait only for the time to attack.

The Sons of Magnus take to the battlefield armed with the infinite armour of their minds.  
The Sons of Angron have yet to see anyone outsmart a bolter shell.

The Sons of Horus are masters of all fields of warfare.  
The Sons of Angron leave all but the heart of the battle to those who follow behind them.

The Sons of Lorgar heap praise upon the Emperor's goals.  
The Sons of Angron worship only his methods.

The Sons of Vulkan carry with them to all places the hearthfires of Nocturne.  
The Sons of Angron care nothing for what is behind them.

The Sons of Corax strike without being seen.  
The Sons of Angron march with sound and thunder and fury.

The Sons of Alpharius ostentatious in their mystery.  
The Sons of Angron are believed too obvious to have secrets.

{oOo}


	41. Avenging Father and Sons

{oOo}

The great bells of the Imperial Palace tolled solemnly once, every hour.

Tomorrow they would toll every half hour, the day after every quarter hour... increasing in frequency until on the seventh day every bell of the palace would toll every sixteen seconds in tribute to the fallen.

Parades of black-robed Astartes marched across thousands of worlds, followed by great columns of mourners.

Crowds of hundreds of thousands gathered outside museums that were home to tokens that somehow were symbolic of the Imperium's loss. On Terra, it was the great Museum of Angron's Sons, where the Princess and her court gathered in mourning garb and the crowd outside was hundreds of millions, swarming around the army of great hound statues that stood silent guard over the Hive Tower.

The Ratel Legion, a chapter of the third founding, had fallen. The brothers lay looking down upon the fields of battle from atop the mounds of the dead they had felled across thirty worlds where detachments had been operating. Their outposts and towers had been levelled, with every cellar and sub-bunker torn open by furious orbital bombardment to the point that no less than three of those thirty worlds would be rendered uninhabitable for centuries. Their great chapter house, a citadel that had been dug beneath an ancient mountain on an airless moon, had been torn from the surface by ancient and awesome devices and flung into the sky where legion after legion of the slave-soldiers of the ancient Slann had stormed aboard, dying by the thousand to bring down the surviving Ratel Legionnaires one at a time.

It was an empty victory for that dying and decrepit race.

The great vaults of geneseed stored within the fortress had been purged with virus bombs, rendering the facilities inaccessible to all and the contents corrupted ruins. Trophies and banners had been destroyed rather than surrendered. Secret hoards of archeotech weaponry had been opened and unleashed upon the invaders at great cost. Even as the cunning and corrupt Great Mage of the Slann stood before his braves upon the dais where once the now pulverised throne of the Chapter Master had been placed, he knew that his fate was sealed. That in trying to avert the doom of prophecy he had called it down himself

There was no mourning in the echoing halls of chapter houses and flagships of the XII Legion. It was not their way to wail in grief.

Fifty thousand Astartes girded themselves for war. It would be the Slann who would wail and howl and scream in anguish. Angron himself, flanked by Ira and by Alta would wage war to the knife upon the race that had presumed to cut down the 14th Chapter of his Legion. Upon the ashes of alien homes the last legacy of the Ratel Legion would be the expiration of their killers. Only then, like a phoenix, would lots be drawn and the sons of many different chapters assembled to rebirth the Ratel and take on their legend.

And upon distant Terra, Serenity wept for the soul of her brother and for those of his brutal, beloved sons.

{oOo}


End file.
